


In Her World

by Magali_Dragon



Series: Live in the New World [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Chapter 22 is Rated R, Character Study, Dany is so sorry for what she did, Dothraki, Drogon is a good boy, F/M, Fix-It, Fuck D and D, Ghost (ASoIAF) is a Good Boy, How Dany gets her groove back, Jon Snow earns his forgiveness, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, POV Daenerys, POV Jon Snow, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Sequel, Slow Burn, Targlings (ASoIaF), Tons of dragons, Tormund is a Jonerys Shipper, Valyria, d and d suck, dany is bamf, hate game of thrones season 8, second foray into this fandom, this is what happens after I get sucked into writing again, valyria comes back to life, what should happen if they return to GoT in ten years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-08-14 02:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 140,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Prequel to "Live in the New World or Die in the Old."Jon finds Dany at Vaes Dothrak and begins his attempt at reconciliation.  Dany begins to conquer Essos with Jon at her side.





	1. Dosh Khaleen (Dany)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I have another fic so soon after finishing the last! I just banged out this chapter today when I should have been working, but it was just in my head and I had to get it down into words. 
> 
> Obviously you know what happens, since this takes place before the events of "Live in the New World or Die in the Old." I plan to flesh out more of how Dany united Essos and how the silly wolf made his way back to her heart. Will alternate Dany and Jon POVs.

_Four Years After Death_

“Khaleesi please, you must eat something. Some stew or a bit of the dried meat.” One of the _dosh khaleen_ insisted, trying to press some bread into her hand. She refused, merely setting the bread onto the plate beside the pallet where she lay, staring at the side of the tent, not wanting to eat. She could not eat much any longer. Not since she rose up on that stone slab in the red temple, four years before.

She heard the women speaking about her, worried about her health and her appearance. She didn’t care. Verri, one of the women, a motherly figure who often would braid her hair when she let it get tattered and frayed, leaned over and brushed back some loose strands from her forehead. “Khaleesi,” she murmured. “Please, it will be good for you. Just a bit.”

No, I can’t. Eating was for people who were alive. I am dead. “I want to die,” she murmured, closing her eyes. She drew her knees up to her chest, bunching into a ball and hugging her arms around her. “Please,” she begged, pressing her face into the pillows on her pallet. “Please leave me alone. Just let me stay and be one of you.” One of the _dosh khaleen_. I am the widow of a _khal_. It was her only qualification to remain here for the rest of her life. 

No longer their _khaleesi_ because she did not want to rule any more. She still maintained some semblance of control and authority over the former Slaver’s Bay cities, but beyond that she left it entirely to the Second Sons. They sought her council, but she spurned Daario when he came to find her, not wanting to engage in what he sought from her. She would never trust another man again. Never love another again. She would stay here, never marry, and never hold lands. She would die before the Mother of Mountains and burn so her ashes could join the Great Stallion in the sky.

The Dothraki were the closest thing she had to a family. They always had been. It was where she found herself. It was where she was Daenerys, the young girl who had been sold and who wandered the grass seas in search of something. She yearned to be that stupid girl sometimes, even if it meant she was scared and unable to speak, because at least that stupid girl would not lose everything. At least that stupid girl had her mind.

Verri tried to turn her, the woman’s cracked and dry hand rough on her shoulder. She lightly swatted her away. “Please,” she begged again. “Just leave me be.”

“You cannot _khaleesi_. You have a chance at life again. Blood magic beyond what anyone could ever have dreamed, please. You must get your strength back.” 

No, she thought, crying into her pillow. Verri eventually gave up and left her tent, leaving her to her thoughts. The horrible thoughts that plagued her mind nightly for four years. Every evening she buried her face into her pillows and wished for the final death. She did not ask anyone to bring her back and yet they did. 

Fuck the Lord of Light, she thought again, hitting her fist weakly into the pillow. She sobbed for the little children who burned in her anguish. The people she wanted to free but in the end she enslaved in death. As she fell into a fitful slumber, for she did not sleep well in her rebirth, she was atop Drogon again. Flying high and raining death on everyone. 

The faces were of children, women, and old men. Of soldiers who raised their arms in surrender, but who she executed nonetheless. No mercy for anyone. 

One of the men, it was always a man, sometimes an elderly one. Sometimes young. Sometimes a child. One of the men would approach her, begging for her to stop. Begging her for an explanation. 

And then the man’s face would change.

The hair would lengthen and curl and darken. 

The eyes would fill with tears and turn gray as the ashy skies.

The face would lengthen and the beard would cover his chin and face.

The brow would furrow in concern and fear. 

_What about all the others who think they know what is good?_

_They don’t get to choose._

And the man would kiss her and she would feel elated, everything she had ever wanted coming to fruition. Until she felt the pain radiate out from her side. She gasped and looked down and then to him, staring at the horrified look in his eyes. 

No. 

No, he…what…no it could not be…no…

She jerked up in bed, screaming as she woke, blinking through hot tears and gripping her fingers at her left breast, clutching for the dagger between her ribs. She howled in horror, for what she had done and for what he had done to her. Tonight she cried for what it might have meant. She gripped the dagger, always at her bedside, just in case someone came to finish her off completely. 

She flung her legs over the side of the pallet and shaking, poured herself a cup of water, but she did not drink. Her throat was parched but nothing could satiate it. All she felt was the hot ash falling from the sky and the warmth of the dragonfire on her face. She closed her eyes, the tears still falling. Sometimes she wondered how she could go on like this, crying herself to sleep and then awake each night. She reached for the parchment from Meereen, reading Daario’s words about how they had to put down another master’s revolt. 

_They think you are gone forever and with that, your ideals, it is getting harder to keep them in line._

Some knew she was alive; she had not hidden it when she left Volantis atop Drogon and arrived in Meereen. Many believed she was a ghost. Come to haunt them if they did not keep the peace. She let them believe it. She couldn’t bring herself to actually take over again. Not right now. 

Was he betraying me the entire time? Dany touched her fingertips to her chapped lips, ignoring the salty tears trickling down the side of her face. She dropped her fingers to her breast, the gaping wound still painful. When he came to Dragonstone and when he bent the knee and when he announced to all in the Dragonpit…was that just a ploy? Something he had concocted up with his duplicitous sister? 

Their family had joined the Usurper in destroying hers. She couldn’t bring herself to care about the love her older brother shared with Lyanna Stark. They were fools. They believed in love and thought it would protect them and all it did was destroy the world. So was this just another Stark plot against someone they thought of as Usurper to their chance at the crown? It came as no surprise to her that they got their independence and whatever remained of the Iron Throne. 

Brandon the Broken, she thought darkly, may the gods ruin his rule as they have all the other Kings of Westeros. 

She pushed up from the pallet and walked out of the tent, ignoring some of the other women who reached for her, hoping she would finally eat something or sit with them by the fires. Other members of her _khalasar_ and her bloodriders stood from where they sat, but she ignored them. 

The sun was rising in the east. 

She strode towards Drogon, who was nesting on the side of the mountain. He preferred this place too. He made a sound and looked to the companion beside him. She approached the small dragon, only the size of a horse. Once upon a time ago her children were that big. The black and white dragon with odd silver eyes cooed when she approached him, flapping his wings excitedly. He had no name; she could not connect with him the way she had her other children. 

It was as though she had birthed a stranger’s child, she thought, lightly touching the dragon’s snout. For all the pain she felt on a daily basis, she sometimes wondered if this was also part of why she had come back. To bring back the dragons again? She had brought back dragons. Three of them, her children, and now she only had one. One of her children, morphed into a demon, living death and she mourned for her Viserion to live like that, a slave, when a dragon was not a slave. The other, kind and sweet Rhaegal, injured and wanting nothing more than to prove to her he was as strong as his big brother, sent to a watery grave, the scorpions hitting him at all his weakest points. 

The black and white egg she’d received from Kinvara. “A gift,” the red woman told her. “From the Lord of Light. It has been in the temple for many hundreds of years. A relic. Waiting for the Mother of Dragons.” 

She took the egg; it shimmered and she wondered how to turn this petrified relic into a living, breathing, child. In the end, she had set it in a funeral pyre, as she had her others, and watched as the priestesses and priests sacrificed a master to the Lord of Light, to pay for his crimes of enslaving children. 

When she woke, the egg was gone, and in its place a tiny breathing black and white dragon with blinking silver eyes. 

The nameless beast looked at her expectedly, flapping its wings. He was too small for the journey she planned to take. She spoke to him in Valyrian. “No, stay.” He made a sound and ducked his head. She wished she could connect to him the same as she had her others. Drogon shot a dark look at the smaller beast, who just curled back up into his little nest, watching them with curious eyes. 

She rose up and ascended Drogon’s wing, taking her seat behind his frill and gripping the spines on his neck. She did not even need to speak to him; their connection was so strong at this point all she had to do was think. 

_Fly_

He screeched and pushed off from the mountainside, taking to the skies, climbing steeply, as though they were going straight into the sun. She closed her eyes, the wind whipping at her face and pushing her hair from her face. She had cut it recently, to mark her shame, but the short braids on the side of her head came undone. Beneath her, her son vibrated with her energy, sharing her anguish. He screeched again, releasing it in a long cry. 

This was the only place where she could be free. 

The only place where she was safe.

Vaes Dothrak was the sacred Dothraki city where she had faced love and loss, where she had birthed her children, lost her husband and baby, and gained a _khalasar_. It was her home for now. 

But she had begun to travel somewhere else in the last four years.

Her true home, she thought, flying south towards the broken peninsula. It was safe for her, maybe because of her blood or her dragon, or because no one could travel there. It was barren and a wasteland and ghostly. Creatures of magic lived in the ruins and the smoking straits and seas surrounding the once majestic Valyria.

They traveled for hours and eventually broke through a thick bank of clouds. She looked down, smiling as Drogon began to descend. This was where he felt home too, she could sense his happiness at the sight of the crumbling spires and rookeries where dragons of old nested and birthed. 

The first time she had come here was not long after she was born again. The red priestess in Volantis told her that it was the Lord of Light’s decision to bring her back. _You came back at his will, your path will be determined in time._ She didn’t want a path. She didn’t want to come back. If she was going to die then she should have just stayed dead. What life was this she was supposed to lead? Knowing what she had done and what had happened to her. 

Fuck the Lord of Light, she thought again, as Drogon landed on the side of the one of the remaining castles. It was in relatively good shape, most of it still standing after the Doom, and she had made it something of a home in the last four years. She had discovered it on her first trip and determined it belonged to a high-ranking dragonrider and his family. 

She stroked Drogon’s snout, closing her eyes and nuzzling against him. “My son,” she murmured. Her last surviving child. The only one who would never betray her. She brushed a kiss over his iron scales. “Go hunt.”

Drogon would not listen to her; he never left her alone when they weren’t at Vaes Dothrak. She stepped away from him and across the open balcony to enter the spire. The air smelled of sulfur and ash. It was hot, but not uncomfortably so for her. She walked into the center of the room and sank to her knees, on the pile of blankets where she had created her own sort of nest. She looked up at the ceiling, a broken glass dome. 

Tears forced her eyes shut. A memory emerged in her mind. Lying on her bed on the boat during a storm, stroking sickle-shaped scars on a strong chest, and murmuring over how she wanted to make love beneath the stars one day. They never had a chance. Now she will never have it again. 

Drogon watched her through the open archways, climbing down the side of the building as she descended the stairs within. She wondered if he blamed himself for her death, for leaving her alone with someone he trusted. “You should have killed him,” she said, shooting an accusing glare at her son. “Burned him.”

He let out a pitiful cry; he couldn’t kill him, she thought. He couldn’t kill someone of Valyrian blood, not without her order. “At least he didn’t try to ride you, take you for his own,” she said, emerging at the base of the spire. She had explored much of Valyria in the last four years, tried to map what she could. Her ancestors were intelligent and imaginative. There were pipes that housed water and fountains that looked as though they spouted it out. Every home had one, perhaps for bathing.

There were lanterns and broken chandeliers, which she imagined, were filled with candles, lighting entire halls. Glass of many colors, shattered and dulled from the ages. She wondered not for the first time if this was why she was back on this world. To rebuild Valyria?

There was a large tower, a rook, she thought, for dragons. She had yet to explore. Drogon jumped from one spire to the other, rumbling the foundation and sending waves in the smoking strait beside her as she walked along a rocky wall. She glanced over into the dark water, seeing a shape float by. Maybe a kraken. She wondered if there were sea dragons here; she had read about them as a child.

Magister Illiro Mopatis presented her with three priceless dragon eggs, from the Shadowlands beyond Asshai, he said. The ages have turned them to stone. Somehow they came alive and her children were born. Was it the blood magic from the witch that killed Drogo and Rhaego? Part of the curse? The fire and blood from her execution? She didn’t know in the end how they came to be, but somehow the old dragonriders could birth the dragons tenfold and she could only imagine the beauty of the creatures flying through the skies here.

The architecture certainly suggested it, the tall spires that dusted the clouds with open archways and balconies for the dragons to land and deposit their riders. The stone was fused, likely by dragonfire, and she had found Valyrian steel arches and smiths. All of the Seven Kingdoms or Six or whatever they were these days could survive for a lifetime on the steel she had found. The gold and the jewels that hadn’t melted in the Doom, hidden away in caches she had found, with Drogon’s help. 

She didn’t know what to do with most of it. She couldn’t wield a sword, although she looked back and thought how foolish she was, thinking a dragon would protect her in the end. If I had a sword maybe, she thought, not for the first time. She shuddered and stopped at an archway, a set of stairs leading down. Drogon cried out and hovered over the arch. 

“What is it?” she wondered, looking up at her son. He made a sound and nodded towards the arch. She looked back up at it. The arch was wide and made of the same black fused obsidian as most of the remaining structures. She ran her hand on the side; etchings in the arch showed dragons flying and there was an Old Valyrian word at the top. 

It was so old; even she couldn’t understand it. She frowned and peered down into the darkness. She looked up at Drogon, who seemed to encourage her. I can’t see, she thought, looking at her hand. Kinvara could create fire just by waving her hand or touching something and murmuring a few words. Maybe I could learn that, she thought. The red woman often told her in those early months in Volantis that she was magic, the blood of Old Valyria, and this was only part of her journey.

She stepped down into the darkness, her eyes adjusting slightly, but she still could not see. It was hot and she heard something in the distance, like cracking. She swallowed hard. There could be any number of demons down here. Stone men, she thought, her heart hurting at the memory of her great bear, who came through here on his way back to her and contracted the disease from the men who remained here.

Drogon breathed lightly down into the cavern. She reached to the side and gripped at something. A stone torch of some sort, she thought, holding it out. He breathed again and a light spark grew on the end of the torch. She lightly blew on it, encouraging the flame until it was large enough for her to wield. She entered the cavern, slowly descending into the darkness. 

The torch cast eerie light on the walls and she dragged her fingers along the stone. Carvings of dragons followed her. Dragons and their eggs. Her heart hammered in her chest. The scar under her breast burned with the increase in the beat. She stopped at the end of the staircase, who knows how many stories beneath the ground. She looked around, waving the torch, eyes wide as she realized where she was. 

It was a nursery.

There were alcoves where she imagined hundreds of eggs. Giant braziers and what looked to be steam coming from the ground beneath her feet. It was hotter than even she could have imagined and she could feel the fires that used to burn there, giving the eggs life. Dragonfire, she thought, looking at the empty alcoves. She had hoped to find eggs…where did the dragons go when the Doom came to Valyria? 

The Shadowlands.

She thought of the dragon that laid the clutch of her children. The dragon had gone to the Shadowlands and laid the eggs before disappearing to the ages. She stepped back and ascended the stairs. 

This time when she climbed atop Drogon, she took a deep breath and looked around. “We should bring more people here,” she murmured. She could envision it. Streets, fountains, and children. A place for people to gather to trade and sell their wares. Valyrian steel smiths could continue their trade of old. Artisans and poets and musicians could practice. She smiled and patted Drogon’s head. “Maybe I know what I am supposed to do with this life,” she murmured.

She nudged her knee into his side and he took to the sky, bringing her back to Vaes Dothrak by the time the night began to fall again. She set him off to hunt with the nameless dragon, who was eager to see them back again. She ignored the women again, plying her with food. She wasn’t hungry. She wrapped her arms around her, feeling a slightly chill in the air. 

Odd, she thought, looking to the west. She shook her head and stepped into the tent. After she washed her face and hands of soot she had accumulated from Valyria, she tied her hair into a braid, what there was of it. She slipped on a simple linen shift and tied a belt around her waist, ensuring the dagger that had come from her heart was placed there. 

A constant reminder. A constant shield.

She sank onto the pallet and drew more papers to her, studying the maps she had pulled from the libraries in some of the ruins. Some of the books Kinvara had gifted her from the Temple of Volantis, which had originated in Asshai. She wasn’t sure what she planned to do. It was probably a joke, a folly, but she felt at home there. Was this what she was supposed to do? 

If I can’t die I may as well do something, she supposed. She wasn’t sure where this surge of life came from. She just didn’t want to go to sleep and ruin it. To dream of his face and her murder again. 

She set her things aside when she heard commotion outside. She stood and exited the tent, standing atop the shallow stairs that led from the tent of the _khaleesi_. Her gaze dropped to Kinvara, atop a large auburn steed, her black hair drifting over her shoulders and a mysterious smile on her lips. The blood red stone on her gold choker glowed, pulsing with life. 

And she turned her attention to the tall man with wild red hair and beard, blue eyes wide and staring, and clad in furs too thick and hot for this far south. The horn he always kept at his side was in his hands and he looked too dumbfounded to drink from it.

Her violet eyes finally broke from him and fell to the man standing before her. 

He looked older than he should have been. Bags beneath his gray eyes. Dark curls wild around his face and his beard unkempt. He was tired and looked sick, his normally pale face an odd shade of green. He stepped towards her and she saw his hands open at his sides, palms up and empty. 

She stepped down from the tent and stopped before him. Each breath rose and fell, reminding her of her life. You are alive, she thought, still not breaking his gaze. 

“You’re not real,” he whispered.

Oh am I, she thought, narrowing her eyes slightly. She was hardly breathing now and felt stiff. Something took control of her mind and she reached for the top of her shift, pulling it down over her left breast to reveal the red scar. The gaping wound that reminded her daily of the betrayal she endured. Reminded her of the horrors she had wrought on the world. 

His eyes stared, open and terrified. She grabbed his hand and pressed the rough, callused hand that had once skimmed over her face and body in love and then had wielded the dagger that did this to her. She pressed it against the skin so eh could feel the gape and the pulse beating beneath, threatening to send the blood in her veins down her side again.

He gasped and his knees went out from under him, falling before her. Begging for forgiveness, she wondered, still not breaking her gaze from his. He reached for her with his other hand, while she fused the one she held to the breast he had once touched in passion and now she forced him to feel for pain. He began to sob, his shoulders wracked. 

I do not want your tears.

And then he let out a soft gasp, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell to the side. She let go of his hand and stared at his limp body at her feet. Was this what he felt with me, she wondered, lifting her gaze to Kinvara’s. 

The red woman merely smiled, vague and knowing. 

She glanced back down at his body and sighed. The tears did not come right then, but she knew they would soon. She turned away and went back into her tent. 

The tears came.


	2. A Hundred Stabs (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tries to engage Dany; Tormund gives Jon a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews! This is going to be a slow burn and angsty fic. Remember-- they are still feeling each other out so it will get worse before it gets better. :)

_Be with me. Build the new world with me._

_You are my queen._

The breath overtook him, strangling him as he jerked upright in the strange linens and pelts that covered the soft pallet beneath him. Jon clutched at his chest, his nails digging into the sickle scar over his heart. He closed his eyes tight, feeling grit in the corners, reminding him he was not in the cold snows of the North, but the hot sands of the Eastern continent.

He was also reminded that she was here.

The jagged scar under her heart. 

The hurt in her eyes.

He reached for his stomach, feeling an ache overtake him again. Their child. He leaned forward, silent sobs wracking his body. My child. Sacrificed for what? For disease and mayhem and hunger and strife? I will never forgive myself. If only I had known.

What, a little voice that sounded a bit like Tyrion Lannister, chided him. You wouldn’t have done it if you’d known? You would have left your duty and honor on the ashen floor with the bodies and risked your sisters’ lives? 

Yes.

He climbed off the pallet and lifted up the linen shirt, tugging it on to hide his scars. He had been on this strange continent for almost a year, trying to get to Valyria and here he was in this also strange city of horselords. He had been awed by the Dothraki when he encountered them. They were true warriors and people should have feared them. The foreign armies on their shores. A horde of experts with their bows and arakhs and horses. 

It was so odd to him how well she blended with them. Wearing the itchy linens and burlap and pelts they accumulated. Her long, glorious silver hair was gone, replaced with frizzy short braids pulled from her face that barely touched the top of her shoulder blades. One of the few Dothraki who had learned the Common Tongue told him that the Dothraki cut their braids to show their shame after losing in battle. 

He hurt knowing that she did that to show them her shame.

It was early morning, the sun was barely up over the horizon. He looked around the city, embers burning from the night before. Horses whinnied a bit here and there. It reminded him of the freefolk camps. A sense of community and family everywhere you went. He glanced towards the mountainside, where the great shadow slept. Beside him, a smaller one, the size of a horse. 

She had another dragon.

He had been here near a month. He refused to leave and was thankful she did not cast him out; it was clear the Dothraki followed every word she whispered and he was lucky to have his head. Not that he cared if they took it off his shoulders. Tormund had made friends, he was safe, and she did not hold the hatred to the Northman that she held against him. Tormund had already made friends with the Dothraki. He spoke the language that mattered, he said: fighting, drinking, and fucking. 

The morning was cool and he stepped out into the sand, his boots scratching loudly in the morning silence. He felt oddly naked as the only one walking out this morning. Without Longclaw at his side. No weapons in the sacred city, she told him, as the Dothraki took the sword he carried. No spilling of blood.

He would not spill a drop of her blood. 

Never again.

He felt drawn towards the side of the mountain where the dragons slept. As he passed her tent, a great one in the center of the camp, the flaps flicked open and she stepped out in front of him. Today she wore her riding breeches, boots, and a bodice of some kind of heavy fabric, dyed dark purple, highlighting her violet eyes. He stopped, still unsure how to address her. 

She saved him, reaching at the sword at her side. “I want to practice.”

“Yes.”

“Now,” she ordered. She went back into the tent and emerged with Longclaw, handing it to him. 

He sighed. When she had allowed him to stay in exchange for training her with the Valyrian sword, he had suggested they start slow, using training swords of wood or dulled blade, but she refused. If I am going to fight for my life I will use the sword I would then, she told him. He had tried to go light with her, terrified of hurting her again, but she refused. 

They went out to the area that she had set up for their training and stood across from him. He unsheathed Longclaw, holding it out as she did the same with Dark Sister. The blade was an extension of her hand and seemed to catch on fire when she touched it. He remembered the heat burning into his hand of the hilt. He stared across at her, taking in the determination in her eyes and crossing her face. He waited a moment and then spun around, two hands on the hilt of Longclaw as he flung it out.

She was too slow and he stopped inches from her side. He breathed deep and stared as she blinked and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” hes aid immediately, drawing the sword back. He shook his head. “I can’t…this was a mistake.”

“No,” she ordered. She took a deep breath and stared across at him. “If I cannot learn how to kill someone from the man who killed me, then I do not deserve to be their khaleesi.” 

He sighed. “Dany…”

The sword was at his neck. He blinked, surprised. It wavered, still heavy in her hands, both clutched on the ruby hilt. “Do not call me that,” she whispered. Tears swam in her eyes. 

He nodded. Of course. She dropped the sword to the ground and shook out her hands. He stepped towards her and she grabbed the sword again. She’s afraid of me. In a month he had tried to get close, but she kept him at a distance, naturally. Even as they trained. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, looking at the sword. He shook his head. “This isn’t a good idea. One of your bloodriders can train you.”

“You cannot hurt me more than you already have,” she said. She fumbled with the sword again. 

He stepped towards her, gently, and very slowly he folded her hands around the grip. “This is made for a woman’s hand,” he explained. “It isn’t as heavy as Longclaw.” She peered up at him, wary as he came to stand behind her, holding the sword up, his hands around hers on the hilt. He was playing with fire. Literally. Above he could feel Drogon watching. “It has to be a part of you. It is the only thing protecting you and you need to trust it.”

His heart hammered in his chest, feeling her against him. She focused on the sword, still holding it. “How can I hold it in one hand,” she asked.

“You need to build your strength.” His fingers dragged on her inner wrist and up her arm. “Hold it straight, like that…it won’t pull on your wrists as much.”

He lightly touched the sword and hissed, feeling the burning on his fingertips. She smirked. “You cannot touch it.”

“Feels like fire.”

“Only a true Targaryen can hold it.” She glared up at him. “And you are not a dragon.”

No, he thought weakly, as she stepped away from him. I am not a dragon. I’m not even a wolf. He cleared his throat as she swung the sword from side to side. She needed gauntlets, he thought. Wrist guards. Armor. He put his hands on his hips. “You need armor,” he said.

“No.” She turned around, glaring at him. “I will not wear armor. The Dothraki do not wear armor.”

“But you could die.”

The words came from his lips before he realized what they meant. A slim dark eyebrow lifted to her hairline and she smirked, lips quirked up. She turned the sword to him, the point glimmering in the morning light as she approached, still holding it aloft. “I have already died,” she murmured. She touched the sword to his chest, nudging the linen aside to reveal one of the scars on his chest. She licked her lips and lifted her gaze to him. “As have you.”

He felt shame creep over him. He dropped his head. She stood before him in silence for a few moments more. He nodded to the sword. “Do you want to continue?”

“How long do you plan to be here Jon Snow?” As long as you will have me, he wanted to say. He said nothing. “You have been here near a moon, Jon Snow.”

“I will be here as long as I can be,” he said, meeting her gaze. He smiled slightly. “Forever, if possible.”

She stared at him and then let out a howl. “I don’t want you here!” she cried. She kicked Longclaw at him and turned, storming off back to her tent. 

The pain flooded his chest again. 

He closed his eyes. 

You know nothing Jon Snow, he heard her voice say, as he picked up Longclaw and headed towards her tent. He flicked open the flaps and stepped inside. She was seated on a pile of pillows, her knees under her and Dark Sister set beside her. She looked so small, drawn into herself. He set the sword down at the entrance of the tent and stepped towards her, lightly dropping his fingertips to her shoulde.r 

She whipped around, smacking at his hand and crying out. “Don’t touch me!”

“How did it feel?” He didn’t know why he was talking. What came over him, like a dark shadow. He fell to his knees beside her, tilting his head to peer into her eyes. He touched the scar on his chest lightly. “Was it dark and empty? It was cold.” He had never told anyone this. He closed his eyes tight, trying not to remember. “Cold and there was nothing. It hurt.”

There was nothing. No response. For a long time. Until he heard her whisper, barely a sound. “It hurt.” She swallowed tightly. “Pain all over.”

“Like a hundred stabs.”

“No, just one.” 

A strangled sound escaped him. He continued, pushing through the guilt. “I heard them. It was nothing and then I heard them. For the watch, they said.” He bit his lip. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it since the moment. Hardly even then. “And then I was sitting up and saw Ghost and I wondered if it was the afterlife.” 

She blinked at him. “You were betrayed by your men. It must have hurt.”

He thought of the hatred in the little boy’s eyes. Olly, holding the knife above him and stabbing it into his heart. The last thing he saw and felt before he sat up on that slab. “Yes,” he murmured.

She stood and loomed over him. He watched as she dropped the bodice down over her breast again to reveal the scar. Tears and anger in her eyes. “You were killed by your men. It hurt.” She touched her fingers to the scar. She sobbed. “I was betrayed by the man I loved. How do you think that felt?” 

He felt his heart throb. The fatal wounds on his chest burned in memory. He blinked through tears. “Daenerys…”

“I woke up and realized the man I loved and wanted to rule with had killed me.” She cried, pulling the bodice back in place. Tears dripped down her cheeks, smudged with dirt from their training. He was at her knees again, bowing his head and feeling the shame and pain. “I wondered if it was all a lie. All I wanted was love and all I had was fear. Even from you. Did you do it on purpose? Was that why you came to Dragonstone and why you came to my bed and loved me and loved my children and wanted me to be your queen? So you could kill me?”

No, no, no, gods no, he thought, shaking his head. He sobbed at her feet. “Daenerys…no I loved you. I do love you!”

She continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “I felt pain I had never felt before. Until Ir ealied I had. With Rhaego. With my son, born of death.”

“I will never forgive myself,” he cried. He knew it. He wished the dragon had killed him there. Begged for it even, but he didn’t have the connection she had with the beast for him to listen.

“You shouldn’t,” she said. She pushed at his shoulders. “You killed me. You killed our child. I came back and she didn’t and it is your fault.” She turned away from him, her arms wrapping around herself. Her voice was hushed. “Get out of my tent. I’m tired.”

He got to his feet and stared at her back, at the shoulders hunched forward. There was nothing he could say or do to make her feel better. To make her understand. All he could do was say the truth. That was all he ever wanted to do. “It wasn’t a lie. Please know that…I know it means nothing, but I love you. I fell in love with you on Dragonstone and that was not a lie, whether or not you believe it.”

She kept staring ahead and he heard her short laugh. “That somehow makes it worse. Just go.”

He left the tent; by this time the camp was awake and moving around. He found Tormund sitting before a fire, cooking some sort of strange meat with a few Dothraki riders. He had his horn in his hand and toasted it up. “King Crow! Come, have a drink. This stuff tastes like horse piss, but I have to say it does the trick.”

Whatever it was, Jon didn’t care, as he grabbed the horn. One of the Dothraki glared at him. “No,” he said, waving his knife as he skinned an animal. “No drink.”

He glared at the rider. Fuck off, he thought, and tilted it back, pouring the burning beverage down his throat. Tormund laughed, whooping and encouraging him on as the Dothraki stared in amusement and surprise. It was horrid, whatever it was, but he didn’t care, as he already felt the fuzzy feelings around his temple when he finished, throwing the horn onto the ground. 

Tormund frowned and looked up. “Crow you okay?”

“No.” I will never be okay. He grabbed another of the drink and stormed off, finding himself stumbling towards the dragons on the side of the mountain, still drinking the horse drink, disgusted and angry with himself. He fell somewhere near his tent and at some point thought Tormund had gotten him up. 

Awhile later he woke on his pallet, head swimming and stomach roiling. He sat up and Tormund gently pushed him back down. “What the fuck,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling like there was wool around it. He coughed. “What happened?”

Instead of laughing at him or making a joke at his expense, the wildling man frowned, bushy eyebrows forming a single line above his bright eyes. He shook his head, imperceptible. “You need to be careful Jon.”

Jon? Not King Crow, Crow, Fucker, whatever…he felt more awake, staring up at his friend. “Why?”

“Because. She was watching you. If you want to win her heart back, drinking yourself blind ain’t the way to do it.”

Wining her back? I just want her to look at me without wanting to murder me. “I killed my child,” he murmured, staring at his friend. He snorted. “You think I felt guilty before? You think I regretted it before?” He closed his eyes, trying to swallow away the wool feeling in his throat. “How long you staying?”

Tormund smirked. His voice rumbled, comforting. “Long as you need Little Crow.”

Hmm, he thought, rolling to his side and closing his eyes. He fell into a fitful dream. Where she was standing in front of the throne, eyes shining and snow falling on her porcelain face. Only when he slid the knife between her ribs and she fell to the ground, he wasn’t holding her, but a babe, crying. He clutched the child to his chest, sobbing and apologizing, but it wasn’t enough. 

The next time he woke, he felt someone watching him. “Tormund go away,” he mumbled. He turned and out of the corner of his eye he didn’t see the giant man still wearing his furs, but a small silver head ducking out of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Dany trains with Dark Sister and gives Jon a 'geography' lesson.


	3. We Are All Foreigners Here (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany schools Jon on where the Westerosi really came from; Jon meets his dragon.

“Again.”

The sword swiped at her and she jumped back. She took another step forward. “Again!” she shouted.

Jon let Longclaw hang at his side. His brow was shining with sweat and he was taking deep breaths. His dark hair tangled in a knot at the back of his head, some tendrils coming loose around his temples. “Daenerys…”

“No!” she shouted. She hated hearing her name from his mouth. She preferred it when he said nothing at all. She swung the sword. “Again!” He did a weird thing with his wrist, flicking the sword around before coming to point to her again. She frowned and pointed to it. He glanced at the sword and then at her, silently questioning. “How did you do that?” 

He looked at his wrist again. “What?”

“That twist thing.”

“Years of practice.” He did it again and she smiled slightly. He shook his head. “I have been practicing with a sword since I was four years old. You have only been doing it for four months.”

Four months, every single day, hours a day. She refused to stop, even when her muscles ached and her bones burned. Every day she trained and she tried not to let him close. She knew he was pained, but she couldn’t trust him. He said he loved her, was that also a lie? Was he also here to kill her? He would not dare, not with her dragons and her Dothraki. 

And she knew Tormund would not bother with the politics of the South. He was not a ‘”fucking kneeler” as he told the Dothraki every single night. She looked up at the sun; it was in the middle of the sky and she realized they’d been at it since before it was at the horizon. She sheathed Visenya’s sword and walked away from him, silently ending their training session.

She went to her tent and sat down with the news from Meereen. She knew it was precarious. The Second Sons were growing weary, they could only hold the three cities for so long. Daario was growing tired of it, he wanted to fight and he wanted to be with her. She crumpled up the parchment and threw it into the fire. She continued to read and feel the fear rise like bile in the back of her throat. 

If the masters returned the people would be enslaved again and then what? She had freed them from their chains. She was the Breaker of Chains. It was her only true success. The only thing she was proud of. She knew she needed to return, to try to rule, but then what? Was that all she was going to do? The failed Queen of Westeros, unable to restore her family’s throne and dynasty to the land they united. 

They would be nowhere without us, she thought, glaring at the fire. She reached her hand in, flicking her fingers around in the flames. It tickled. They would still be fighting amongst themselves, petty little wars over nothing if not for Aegon and his sisters. I want to show the world that I am not my father. Not the madness they think runs within us. 

Too late, a voice told her. You already showed them who you are.

She swallowed and looked back to the flames. They continued to dance. She saw a shadow in the flames and looked up, not surprised to see Kinvara standing before her. She waited, knowing the red woman would speak first. 

“The red priests and priestesses are being round up in Braavos,” she announced.

“The Sealord there allows free religion. It has more temples than anywhere in the world.”

“Not anymore.”

Braavos was founded by escaped slaves from Valyria. Her ancestors bound people to their will and it shamed her. She would not be like them, she thought, thinking of the ancient city where she returned time and time again. She had brought people from Qoohor last time. They were reforging the Valyrian steel and gathering it to make weapons. For what, she didn’t know yet. She glanced down at the maps in front of her and dragged her fingers along the road linking the nine Free Cities together. “Well that is the will of the Sealord.”

“The will of the people is what matters.”

“Then they can fight for themselves.”

Kinvara sank down across from the fire. She cocked her head. “The people cannot fight for themselves if they do not know what they are fighting for.”

And I’m supposed to be the one to tell them? She glared at the red woman. “I wanted to liberate the world,” she murmured. Her eyes wide. “I got a knife in the heart.” It was not her, she kept telling herself. It was someone else. Someone else burned those people and destroyed the city. Someone hurt and angry and not of her mind. Pushed to the brink by a population who hated her. She was only going to be what they expected of her. A foreign conqueror with her foreign armies. Aegon Targaryen reborn.

Since the real Aegon was weak.

“The Lord of Light brought you back.”

She snorted and Kinvara frowned at the dismissiveness of her god. “The Lord of Light broght me back and for what? Brought Jon Snow back and why? To kill me? Well he did what he was meant to do.” She scowled. “To break the wheel? Well congratulations world, it is broken. There’s a broken boy king on the throne that they elected. Or rather Tyrion Lannister installed.”

“And their people still suffer, there is no broken wheel.” Kinvara waved her hands in the flames, staring into them, her voice hollow. “The plan will unfold in time.”

What plan? She shook her head, muttering. “I want to go back to Valyria. I want to return it to what it was before.”

“So do it my Queen.” I am not a queen. I am hardly even a khaleesi. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, still staring into the fire. Kinvara continued. “You must face your demons, Daenerys.”

She closed her eyes. “My demons are gone,” she murmured. She thought of the child that she had carried for such a short time. Gone with the breath that he took when he stabbed her heart. “Just like my baby and my heart and my children.”

I am but a shell of myself. I am nothing, she thought, closing her eyes around tears. Kinvara reached through the fire and touched her wrist lightly. “You must allow yourself to trust again. If not anyone else, then at least yourself.”

The last time I trusted I died. She choked on her tears. “When I trusted myself I burned a city to the ground, murdered thousands of innocent people.” 

“And you started the path to where you will end up.” 

With those cryptic words, the red priestess stood and left the tent. Dany stared at the fire. She closed her eyes, lulled a bit by the comforting warmth. She continued to sit, for how long she couldn’t say. The sun had moved from the middle of the sky and maybe it was early evening when the tent flap opened. She looked up, knowing it was him. Everyone else actually announced themselves or left her alone. 

“Go away.”

“I am not leaving.” 

She was too tired and weak to fight him then. She continued to read her papers and lifted up the quill, beginning to scratch out, in Valyrian so he couldn’t read it over her shoulder if he wanted, a series of ideas she had for the Valyrian peninsula. She looked over at him; he was at one of the tables in the corner, picking up maps and scanning them. 

They stayed in silence. She sketched out the pipelines she had discovered in Valryia; there was a freshwater river on the other side of the mainland; they could get the aqueducts built and bring it into the cisterns she had. She was paying people from Meereen and Yunkai and Astapor to clean them. Many feared travel to the land, but she had convinced Grey Worm, her most loyal commander who would serve her to his dying breath, to lead them with the other Unsullied. 

There would be no wars, she thought. She just wanted a place for people to be free, like Valyria of old. She lifted a parchment and looked over the top of it, hiding her gaze from him. He didn’t sense her watching, he was so engrossed in the maps. He picked up one of the spare quills and dipped it into ink. He made a note on one of the maps. She scowled. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t look over at her. “I had no idea Essos was so big…I wasn’t supposed to be educated. Bastards aren’t supposed to learn at the Maester’s knee, but…but Robb was going to be the Lord of Winterfell and I would sit in and listen. My father…” he trailed off and swallowed hard, pushing through whatever he thought of in that moment about Ned Stark. He sighed. “My father made sure I learned too, but I didn’t realize…we didn’t learn a lot about it.”

“Typical of the Westerosi, to only care about themselves,” she whispered. 

“I had never left the North until I went to Dragonstone.”

“Well good for you Jon Snow, you left the North and you went to Dragonstone and you met me, the foreign queen with her foreign armies from across the Sea,” she said, getting to her feet. She grabbed the map from him, throwing it aside so she could glare at him. She was so mad at him right now. “And now you’re here, you can see where your foreign whore queen came from.” She grinned, angry as his eyes widened slightly, taking a step back from her. She jabbed her finger into his chest. “I was born on Dragonstone. I was born in Westeros. My brothers were, my mother and father, and their parents…all the Targaryens save for Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys…we united your shitty kingdoms and we were Westerosi.” She laughed harshly. “You all pride yourselves on being leaders of the Andals and the Rhyonar and the First Men. Every one of them was foreign at one point. You all thought you were superior than me and my dragons and my men.”

“I didn’t. I never thought that and stop claiming I did,” he said, angry. He glared at her. “I am really growing tired of you throwing that in my face Daenerys.”

“Don’t say my name.”

“Well then what should I call you?” he spat. He laughed. “I can’t use your name, so what? Khaleesi? Mother of Dragons? Breaker of Chains?” 

“I am none of those things anymore.”

He closed his eyes tight. He waited and lifted his head back to her, whispering. “My Queen?”

No, she silently sobbed, unable to make a sound. She shook her head and moved by him to the maps again, looking at the notes he haaszd made. She traced the line he’d drawn through the Free Cities. “When I was here I was a foreigner,” she murmured. She lifted her eyes to his. They were so gray and deep and sad. She shook her head, whispering. “When I was there I was a foreigner. I belong nowhere.”

He lightly touched his fingertips to hers, over the edge of the paper. “You belong here,” he whispered. They said nothing. Did nothing. She was frozen, wanting nothing more than to jerk her hand away and scream at him and hit him. She was just so tired. She closed her eyes, trying not to cry. He cleared his throat. “Where is Valyria?”

“South.”

“Show me.”

She looked up at him, squinting. “You cannot go there. Valyria is where the Targaryens are from. Where they tamed dragons and where they fled the Doom and came to Westeros and conquered.” She pulled away from him, walking away to the front of the tent. “You are not a Targaryen, Jon Snow.” 

The dirt and sand felt good under her bare feet as she stomped away from the tent and him. She made her way to the side of the mountain, snatching up a dead goat from one of the tents, dragging it behind her as she walked over to the dragons. Drogon had been flying around, likely hunting, and landed, sending rocks tumbling down the side of the hill. The other one jumped up, flapping his wings and screeching as he resettled. 

She dragged the goat up to them, throwing it to the little one, who still was learning to hunt at Drogon’s side. “I should have listened to you,” she thought, stroking his face. She sighed. They had flown with her to the North, but they didn’t like it. It wasn’t for dragons. It wasn’t for her. All they had known was death and pain there. She leaned against Drogon, watching the younger dragon release a stream of fire onto the goat before leaning in and munching on his treat. 

He was growing quickly now, much quicker than he had before…well before Jon showed up. She glanced sideways as he approached. He should not have looked as well as he did, wearing the Dothraki clothing and his hair pulled back from his face. She hated him for it. He shouldn’t have blended in here. As she stood out in the North, he should be standing out in the south. She looked back to Drogon, who glared at the newcomer, a threat rumbling low in his throat. 

Jon lightly touched the maw of the other dragon, which greeted him with a series of chirps and head bobs. He had been visiting with the dragon occasionally. Once she found him alone with the beast. It was the Valyrian blood that allowed him to touch the dragon and stroke its head and speak to it as though he belonged with it. She hated him for it. “He’s still so small,” he said. The dragon chirped, as if to say ‘am not!’ He chuckled, hands on the side of the dragon’s nose. “Yeah, you are, don’t deny it.”

She scowled. “He’s still a baby.” She walked around to Drogon’s side. “Will you kill him too?”

“Stop it,” he whispered. He looked sick. “You know I feel…you know.”

Oh I know, I just wanted to be mean. She felt a pang of regret in her stomach. She ducked her head. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She continued to stroke Drogon, looking over her shoulder as the other beast began to nuzzle Jon. Traitor, she thought darkly. She moved to the side and climbed onto Drogon’s back. She needed to think. 

“Where are you going?”

“Valyria.”

“Can I come?” he asked, almost hopeful. 

She shot him a look and said nothing. She looked to Drogon and the dragon pushed from the ground, taking to the sky. She couldn’t bring him to Valyria right now. It was still too new. It was her home, not his. She looked down at him, still with the young dragon, talking to it. 

The dragon made a sound and fluttered its wings, knocking its head into him as if to try to get him to climb onto its back. He laughed and got to his feet, his arm going around the dragon’s neck as he continued to stroke its snout. The dragon only seemed to grow more affectionate with him. 

Drogon blinked a red eye in her direction and she felt his rumble. She lightly pushed on one of his spines. “No,” she said, refusing to listen to him. “He’s not coming with us yet.” 

In spite of herself, she looked back down again, before they flew away south, and couldn’t stop the smile on her lips as the dragon followed Jon back to the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews! This is a very slow burn fic, hence the 35 chapters vs last fic's 28. I know this chapter was short, I'm hoping to have some longer ones upcoming as Dany starts to take Essos. 
> 
> Next time: Jon visits New Valyria; Dany and Jon fight it out.


	4. Only Waiting (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon visits New Valyria and makes a discovery.

“What kind of a fucker climbs on a dragon and flies around?”

Jon rolled his eyes, throwing a dead chicken towards the silver and white beast, as Tormund kept a healthy distance away. “Well you if I am not mistaken.”

“That was different.”

“How? You are the only free folk to ever climb on a dragon, the only one to get on a ship east, and the only one to make it this far south.” He grinned at his friend, who seemed to ponder those achievements. “We can call you Tormund the Explorer.”

The redhead belched as he took another sip of his Dothraki drink from his horn. “Ha! Unlikely. I am only here because you need someone to watch your skinny little neck.”

It was said in jest, but he was grateful for the wildling’s presence. He needed that part of the North to anchor him somewhat here. Tormund had ingratiated himself with the Dothraki, who called him ‘Vorso’, for fire as they rubbed his red hair and laughed. He drank with them, he went hunting with them, and if Jon was not mistaken judging from a fight between two women over by the water well and Tormund slinking away, he was fucking them too.

He would even fight with them, if necessary, which Jon wondered might be upon them. Dany had been traveling more, back and forth to Valyria, taking some Dothraki with her, journeying with them on horseback while Drogon flew above, leaving him to the camp, under the watchful eye of her bloodriders. She was studying the maps and making notes and sending messages back and forth to Dragon’s Bay.

When she was gone, he slipped into her tent and looked at the maps too. He didn’t know what she was planning, but he wanted to be as involved as she would let him. He was not lying to her when he said he pledged himself to her. Their training was going well; she had accepted the leather wrist guards that he had borrowed from one of the Dothraki. He was picking up some of their language here and there, but they still called him a word he didn’t recognized.

He asked her one night, both of them sitting side by side. She chewed on her dried horsemeat for a minute and then glanced sideways. “They call you wolf,” she whispered. “Although there is no word in Dothraki for wolf, so they call you killer dog.”

He supposed that was more truthful than if they called him wolf.

He threw another chicken at the dragon, which fired it quickly, sending it to a crisp before swallowing it whole, loudly crunching on the bones. Tormund made a face and mimed retching. “You eat like that, I see no difference,” he laughed. He dragged over a goat he’d killed, knowing that the dragons preferred their kill fresh before they cooked the meat. 

As the dragon ate, its tail swishing in almost a sense of happiness, Jon could feel his heart feel warm as well. Like he was also satiated. He sometimes had dreams where he was Ghost, running through the forest and splashing into cool streams, but this was different. It reminded him somewhat of how he had felt with Rhaegal although stronger. Deeper. 

The first dragon he’d ridden had been hers and hers outright. He was simply the rider. He didn’t have time to develop the bond she had. The people thought he was crazy. Sansa had called him a lunatic when she’d encountered him that evening after he’d flown by Winterfell atop the beast. He should have known then. Sam’s words about his parentage only confirmed what he had been wondering. 

He had felt the pain when Rhaegal had died, he just didn’t know it at the time. Not until he arrived at Dragonstone and found her, broken and alone and scared. He had heard the scream in his mind. _Mother!_ and then _Father!_ He had failed the jade beast. He hadn’t been there when he should have. Even if it meant he would be in the bottom of Blackwater Bay as well.

He would join her when she came to train the dragon, but it seemed to respond to his touch. “She didn’t name you,” he said, stroking the dragon’s jaw. “That’s peculiar.”

The bond she had with this dragon wasn’t like the ones she had with her children. She didn’t even refer to him as her son. He looked over at Tormund, who had cleared his throat and stepped back, turning around and seeing her approach. Drogon had landed atop the mountain and was thundering around. She walked slowly towards him, ignoring Tormund, and glanced at the beast. “He likes you,” she said.

“I guess.” He waited for Tormund to depart, leaving them alone together. The dragon reached for her and she stroked the top of his head. “You don’t like him, do you?”

“No, I love him, he is one of my children, but…” she shrugged. “I feel as though I am taking someone else’s place with him. Like he is not really mine.” She scowled. “Perhaps an after affect of rising from the dead.” She dropped her hand to her side. 

He kept scratching the beast’s chin, the silver eyes shutting in bliss, like a cat. “Where do you go?” he asked. He didn’t expect her to tell him. 

“I was in Qohor.”

Qohor. From what he remembered it was a city of smiths. Valyrian blacksmiths who could bend the famous steel to their will. One of the original cities of the Valyrian Freehold. “What were you doing there?” he asked, nonchalant.

She glared at him. “Why? You going to tell your king?”

“He is not my king.”

“And how would I know that Jon Snow? He is your brother, you trusted your family more than you trusted me, and look where that got you.” She grinned, angry. “You deserted the Night’s Watch and convinced a woman who loved you of your loyalty. How do I know you didn’t do it again? You aren’t doing it now?” 

Trust. He dropped his hands to his sides and then shoved them into the pockets of the breeches he wore, the brown leather the Dothraki wore. He felt like he was losing what part of him he hadn’t lost when he had killed her. When he had gone back to the Wall and to the Free Folk. He was someone else now. “You have to trust me, I know you can’t. I know you shouldn’t, but you have to,” he said. His brow furrowed and he hurt all over, wishing to the gods he could do it again. All of it. “Your dragons trust me…the Dothraki are beginning to trust me…I would never bring Tormund here…I would never have given you that sword if…” 

She touched the top of Dark Sister while he spoke. He could swear something changed in her eyes. Maybe a slight understanding. She pursed her lips. He swallowed hard, continuing. “I will never be able to forgive myself for what I did and I do not expect you to forgive me either.” His eyes dropped to the dagger on her hip. The one he had buried in her chest. “But I am here. I am here and I…I want to serve you like I didn’t before. I want to protect and be here in whatever you do. I swear it Daenerys.” 

He dropped to his knee, unsure what else she wanted. He hadn’t bent the knee the first time and here he was in the dirt of Vaes Dothrak, trying again. He dropped his gaze down to the ground. “I swear to you, by the old gods and the new, I will never betray you again.” I love you.

She said nothing. After a moment, he looked up, and she was still watching him, her eyelids dropped slightly and carefully appraising him through her lashes. She turned away and he got to his feet, dusting his knees. She touched the black dragon lightly and then turned away. “Come.”

“Where?”

“Just come.” He followed her, wondering what she planned to do. He stopped at Drogon’s massive claw, watching her climb atop him. She looked down and held out her hand. He swallowed, clambering up, taking her hand gently. 

It was soft, but he could feel the ridges of calluses along the side of her palm, from wielding the sword. She let go quickly and looked ahead. He looked at the other dragon, fluttering its wings. “Come on,” he called to it and it screeched in happiness, taking off to the sky. He laughed. “You don’t know where we’re going! Whoa!”

Without warning Drogon took off and he lurched forward, wrapping his arms around her slim waist. He felt a quiver in his stomach and felt her tense slightly against him. They flew off and he closed his eyes, remembering what it was like to have the wind whipping back your hair and caressing your skin. The jolt in your stomach as you rose and plummeted.

He inhaled deeply, and smiling as her hair, now longer than it had been when he’d arrived, smelled the same as it had before. Like lemon and rose petals. He’d watched her one night, on the ship, pouring the oil into her hands and running in through her hair, the braids shining. He’d pretended to be asleep when she’d gotten up and returned to the bed, embarrassed by the odd intimacy of just watching her in her nightly routine. 

She tilted her head back slightly after he’d done the gesture, but said nothing; not like you could hear anyone with the wind whipping through them like this. He gripped her waist and felt the curves mold against him as she tightened slightly and then relaxed. His arms rested around her stomach and he closed his eyes. What would it have been like to watch her grow large with their child? To feel the movement underneath? 

It would never be, he thought sadly. She would never allow him that close again, as much as he yearned for it to happen. It would be his fault too. Rightly so. He looked down at the landscape below them, changing from the desert of the Dothraki Sea to jungle and tangled forests. 

Was this what she saw that horrible day? Just nothing beneath her but the city? He had been on the ground, watching it happen, and she had been high above, raining the fire on everyone. Distant and removed. She hadn’t seen what she had wrought. Not really. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t forgive her for what she had done, because she had done it, and she admitted she did it. She wasn’t in her right mind, he thought again. He heard her screams.

Every night when the camp went to sleep, but some stayed up. He was awake long into the night, drinking himself to nothing. Drinking himself into a blackness so he wouldn’t dream of her face. Or their dead child. In the end, he would lie in his head and he would hear her. None of the Dothraki said anything. They would look at her tent with sorrow in their eyes and then whisper amongst each other. The one who spoke Common Tongue, a young man named Rono, he was blunt. 

“Your fault,” he said. He pointed his arakh to Jon. “Your people fault. She sad. She sorry. You do not care.” 

I care, he wanted to scream at the man. I care more than anyone. It is all I can do at this point. 

Every night she screamed herself to sleep and screamed herself awake. She howled. He didn’t understand the words sometimes, standing outside the tent, wanting to go in, but fearful of what she might do if she saw him above her. The dagger would be in his chest, he knew it, so he stayed outside and he cried with her, wishing he could go in and hold her until the terrors disappeared. Sometimes he heard her speak in Common Tongue. 

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…I didn’t mean to…_

Other times it was in Valyrian. More often then naught it was Valyrian. The red priestess visited from time to time and the last time he’d requested she send him a book on Valyrian, so he could learn the language. She ahd returned, providing him the heavy leather volume. It took him time to find what he was looking for, days even, but he’d located the word she chanted over and over in her tears.

It broke him.

Children. Little children.

They flew for hours. His knees cramped and he was tired, the wind fatiguing him. He glanced at the little dragon beside him, as large as a carriage now, keeping up with his great brother. He could feel the beast’s excitement as they drew closer. Closer to where?

Until they broke through the fog and he stared down, gasping in surprise. He thought seeing the Wall for the first time was an experience. He loved watching people’s faces when they took it in. The magic and beauty of the massive structure. This was beyond that feeling. The spires touching the sky. The black obsidian of the buildings. They dove down and he saw people working. He saw red priests and priestesses. Dark skinned blacksmiths from Qohor, working in fire pits on gleaming blades. He could see hundreds of people, hammering and building and creating. 

They looked up and cheered at the sight of her, waving as she dove Drogon up and down. They landed atop a single spire, with men working on the side, wearing slings and ropes as they hung hundreds of feet above the ground, using torches and tools to fuse glass into arches. “Myrish glassblowers,” she explained at his curious look. She pulled off the scarf she had been wearing, setting it on an obsidian table in the center of the room. 

He turned, gazing up at the rounded dome. It was filled with glass, looking straight to the stars. “This is incredible,” he murmured. He dropped his eyes to hers, seeing the pride in her face. “This is all you.”

“New Valyria,” she whispered. She smiled. “This is where my ancestors were from. It is where…” she trailed off and looked at the table, scattered with books and maps. She said nothing and he didn’t need to know where her line of thinking trailed.

It was where her descendants would live, but she would not have any. He closed his eyes. Neither would I. The Targaryen dynasty had died with her, everyone said, but they did not seem to care that he also carried the dragon blood. It would die with him too. He followed her down a winding staircase. This structure was more built up than the others. Like a home. “Will you move here from Vaes Dothrak?”

“One day,” she said. 

They emerged into a great hall, but no one was working here. He looked up and saw what resembled a throne of sorts. She ignored it and walked to one of the walls, her fingers dragging on the painted images. He gestured to the throne. “This would make an excellent great hall.”

“No,” she said. She shook her head. “A queen needs to see her people. They can come to her, but…I would not feel comfortable anymore in a place like this, making people come to me.” She stopped at the maps painting on the walls. “It doesn’t matter anyways. I will never be a queen of anything.”

He looked at the map. It was the Freehold. “They conquered most of Essos,” he murmured, touching the ancient symbols. 

“That is what I am, am I not?”

He pointed to the bay, but there were no cities drawn on it. “You have these.” Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai. He glanced at her, whispering. “They love you there. You have the people.”

“No one has them, they are free.”

He pointed to the area of the Dothraki. “The Dothraki sea. You have them.”

“I do not want cities,” she snapped. She slapped her hand on the wall, glaring at him, and he feared he had overstepped, when her eyes shuttered, going dark. She shook her head. “I wanted the Seven Kingdoms. I wanted to take back what was stolen from my family. In the end it didn’t matter because the Seven Kingdoms did not want me.” She looked at the map. “And all I want to do now is help the people.” She ran her thumb over the city of Braavos, frowning. “The Sealord there is enslaving people for their religion…contrary to what the city’s ideals and foundations are.” She pointed to Volantis. “Five slaves for one freeman. The Triarch are elected, but only by the ones with a vote…not the people.” She gestured to Myr and Lys. “The same here…whorehouses where women are bred as toys for men, to be fucked and thrown out onto the streets when they age.” She glared at him. “I hear your Lord of Highgarden is quite fond of Lys.”

He shook his head, whispering. “The politics of Westeros are not my concern.”

“They should be, because they are your people.” She looked to the map, sad. “And I thought they were mine too.”

A woman without a home. The Essosi thought of her as Westerosi and the Westerosi of her as Essosi. In the end…she was Valyrian, he thought, looking around the ruined hall. She was making her home. He frowned. He was never a Stark. He knew that in his blood. He was not a Targaryen either. He was a bastard, a deserter, a kinslayer, and a Queenslayer. He closed his eyes. “You want to free the people,” he whispered. He smiled softly. “So free them.”

She shook her head, tears wavering. They finally fell when she closed her eyes, tracking rivulets down her drawn cheeks. “I want to…I want to free them, but…it is in my blood and I was brought back for something…” She looked to him again, sniffing. “They say I’m mad. I know. I burned Varys for betraying me, but I know what he was saying. The coin flipped and I was mad. Mad Queen Daenerys. Just like her father. Worse even.” She wiped at her eyes and cried. “I was sad. Lonely and sad and…and I had no one. Not even you.”

He felt anger and pain rise up within him. “You murdered people,” he whispered. It was all he could fall back on. He waved to the vague shape of Westeros on the wall. “You burned a city to the ground! Your father never did that Dany!”

“I know!” she howled, still crying. “And why do you think I haven’t tried to help anyone? Why I just want to die and stay where I am? If I go again am I going to become that same woman? The woman who burned children?” She turned away from him and sobbed. 

He closed his eyes, wanting to comfort her, but she would only pull from him. “What was I supposed to do? You would have killed anyone who disagreed with you…my sisters!”

“Your sisters who betrayed you?” she roared, spinning on her heel. She walked towards him and pushed at his shoulders. He did not fight back. He deserved this. “Don’t think I don’t know. I told you Sansa would stop at nothing.”

He knew now. He understood. He was played as much as she was. Arya gone, somewhere on a map. Or not. Sansa with her crown, the crown she’d wanted since she was a child. He said nothing. She walked away from him and to a glass window. Myrish glass, he thought. He approached her. The glass was of a man with indigo eyes and silver hair. Black and red doublet and sword. A dragon in the background. Melancholy on his face. 

She stroked the silver hair shining as the sun peeked through the fog and beamed into the room. Their ancestors, he thought. Silver hair and violet eyes of Valyria. Would our daughter look like her, he wondered, as he took in the matching features. He could not bear to think of it. He turned away and left the room. 

And began to wander.

The ones who were working stop to stare at him and he paid them no attention. He had no weapons in the event there are those who want to attack. He didn’t care. He wandered, feeling hot in the Dothraki leathers. He meandered through streets, ruined buildings above. He stepped carefully across broken bridges, hearing sounds in the waters below. 

He knew the stories of the First Men, the ones who founded the North. The stories the Free Folk told over their ale and fires at night. He knew little of Valyria. He wanted to learn the language. To understand this part of him. What would have happened if he did not resemble his mother? If he had his father’s indigo eyes and silver hair? Would he be dead? Would Ned have sent him across the sea to be with the exiled prince and princess?

She said she was hunted. Robert Baratheon wanted her dead, even when she was no threat to him. It didn’t matter. He feared Targaryens returning to take the throne, but even when the one did, the people did not want her. We used her for the North and they rejected her. She lost her children for us. Her men. Her sworn protector Jorah Mormont.

And we tossed her aside like an apple core, he thought, his heart sinking deeper into his chest. They did not come to see her for what he did. He hated that she thought he was manipulating her the whole time. He wanted her to see he loved her from the beginning. She demanded he bend the knee before he even remembered who she was and then he saw her in that Dragonstone throne room and could not deny the connection. 

My aunt, he thought darkly. It didn’t matter now. The Starks had married cousins to cousins for decades. The great Kingslayer himself had lain with his sister and Tyrion thought he would be a prude about it all. Fuck them, he thought. He kicked at a rock, watching it disappear into a stone archway. He turned and began to follow the rock, making its way down a spiral staircase into darkness. 

Something called to him. Was this what she felt? He stopped at the base of the stairs, a pinprick of light from the top serving as his only guide. He stepped closer to an alcove. Gods it was hot. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine and his hair stuck to the back of his neck. It was as though they were atop a volcano. 

He stepped to the alcove. There were vents and cracks. He carefully dodged a large one, steam pouring from it. He stopped at the one vent and although he could not see, he reached his hands in. Something possessed him. It was like there was another person in his body. He pulled at the hard stone in his hands. Something dislodged. His breath in his throat, he lifted up the heavy object. 

He knew what it was before he got to the surface.

Once the light blinded him as he emerged back onto the street, he adjusted and took stock of the item he had found. Gods. His hand smoothed over the ash and dirt that caked to it. It resembled a large rock. Something you might have found in the godswood. He cradled it against him, brushing away the ages of ash that had formed around it. Cocooning it. 

The black and white dragon flew over his head and screeched, landing atop the archway he stood beneath. It let out another scream and not long after, Drogon flew overhead. He waited, hearing her footsteps. “Where did you go?” she asked. 

He said nothing, still taking in what he held in his hands. 

She stopped, eyes widening in recognition at what he held. “Jon.”

That was the first time she had used his name without adding the distancing ‘Snow’ to the end of it. He swallowed hard and looked up. “I think I found a dragon egg.”

“I think you did as well.”

The egg was beginning to shimmer, maybe in the presence of the other dragon. Or her. He could see that it was a beautiful icy blue beneath the black stone and lava ash. She touched it lightly and it almost quivered. He looked to her. “What do we do with it?”

“We hatch it.”

“How?”

“Fire and blood.” She met his eyes. There was a fire there he hadn’t seen since he’d arrived. She lifted her chin slightly. “I am going to Qohor. I am going to ask them to unite with the cities on Dragon’s Bay. Then to Myr. They will be the easiest to bring into the fold. Lys will prove difficult as the whorehouses are run by a cabal of former Westerosi minor lords.” She looked around them. “I will rebuild.” 

He smiled. “You will free them.”

“I have the Second Sons, the Dothraki, and the Unsullied.” She had not spoken of them. He wondered if Grey Worm was aware of her rebirth. She nodded, almost to herself. “I am the Breaker of Chains. I will break the chains that still exist. Perhaps this is my purpose.”

He nodded. She looked at the egg and gestured for him. They climbed atop Drogon. He carefully shielded the egg against him so as not to drop it, wondering where they were going. The silver and white followed behind. They flew atop the ruins and eventually landed on one of the other islands, this one merely a fragment. It smelled of rotten eggs and yellowish gasses exploded every so often from gash-like vents in the ground. 

They approached a small mound and she knelt before it. He could see lava bubbling within. “Daenerys,” he warned. What were they doing here?

“Give me the egg,” she said. 

He gave it to her, wordlessly. The dragons watched, quivering. She set the egg into the small lava pit and reached for the dagger at her side. He gasped as she sliced her hand open, lifting it up and watching as blood dribbled onto the shell. The blood seemed to glow, bright red against the surface. He stepped back with her and she nodded to Drogon. “_Dracarys_” she ordered.

Drogon reared back and he heard the sound of the fireball forming deep in the dragon’s throat before he surged forward, releasing a stream of fire onto the small pit. The ground almost exploded around them and he jumped back, grabbing her wrist at the same time she clutched for his hand. 

They stared. His eyes widened, gray as moon, while her violet ones shone with tears. The fire died away, revealing a black pit, embers crackling around it. She knelt, watching as a small silver-blue ball began to uncurl. Gods, he thought, over and over again. He knelt beside her, both of them staring as the ball uncurled further, tissue-thin wings spreading out, a soft little cough escaping the creature. 

“I thought it was dead,” he whispered.

She stared at the egg, smiling. She offered her hand and the hatchling turned, chirping at her. It had wings tipped with silver and sapphire blue eyes. Her voice was hushed as she bestowed it with a name. “Silverwing.”

Together they bound the hatchling up in rags and got to their feet, walking back over to Drogon and the unnamed one. He lightly touched the hatchling’s head, jerking back as it turned to peer at him. He swallowed hard. “I thought they were dead,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “No. They are simply waiting.”

He gazed at her. Did she know how beautiful she was? Of course she was, wearing the regal black and red of her house colors, shining silver rings and chains, and her braids intricate and pulled back to reveal her porcelain face. Here though, with soot streaking her cheeks, tears in her eyes, and face flushed. Her long hair peppered with tiny braids and short, tugged into a tail that barely brushed the tops of her shoulders. Wearing dirty leather and rags. Her pale icy skin now a lovely gold from the sun. The happiness dancing in her eyes. He was so glad she was happy right now. He wanted nothing more than that for her. He touched her wrist and she did not recoil. His voice was husky and rasped. “I will wait for you Dany.”

She smiled at him, her eyes shining, and for a brief moment, he thought he was seeing his Dany again. The one who loved him. Who wanted to build a world with him. Until something changed. Her eyes dried and shuttered, the mask returned and she turned her head from him. Her voice went cool. “You will be waiting a long time Jon.” 

He let her walk away, getting atop Drogon and securing the hatchling against her. He shook his head and smiled to himself. 

She didn’t yell at him when he called her by her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the reviews, really appreciate them!
> 
> Next time: Dany begins to unite the Free Cities.


	5. The First City (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany shows Jon a different slavery to what he knows; Jon and Dany have a moment of peace.

“Harder!” She shouted. She ducked, dodging backwards and laughing as the sword moved a hair’s breath over her stomach. She jumped back to her feet, leaping into the air as Longclaw attempted to slide under her feet. She whipped Dark Sister over her head at the same time that Jon used a large boulder as leverage to leap up, clanging Longclaw into the other Valyrian sword, both of them shaking as the swords vibrated. 

The vibration had her stumbling to her feet and Longclaw was pointed at her chest. They waited a second and he took deep breaths, staring down at her. “Yield,” he ordered.

She pursed her lips. No. She licked her lips and the move distracted him enough or her to scissor kick her feet out and knock him onto his ass. She grabbed Dark Sister and held it in one hand, the sword now comfortable in her grip, pointing it at him. She arched an eyebrow. “You yield.”

Beneath the sword he smiled; he should be scared, she thought, but knew he wasn’t. He waited a moment and then suddenly she was on the ground, the sword falling down beside her. He laughed, sitting up and draping his arms over his knees. “I could do this all day,” he said. 

At least he was fighting her, she thought, climbing up from the ground. She dusted off her hands, not bothering with the leathers she wore. She would not admit to him that she was enjoying their practice sessions. He was no longer treating her as if she was a porcelain vase. She was learning each time. It had been every day for months now. 

Damn near a year, maybe longer, if she was not mistaken. 

She lifted her face to the sky, smiling as Silverwing flew overhead with the still unnamed one and Drogon. Drogon was not thrilled with the new addition to their family. Sometimes she wondered if he missed his brothers. She sure did. She shielded her gaze with her hand, seeing Drogon hauling back what appeared to be a large buffalo of some sort. Probably from the northern plains. That was a long flight. 

She threw Longclaw towards him and sheathed Dark Sister. “We’re done for now.” 

Tormund, who had been sitting up on the hillside watching their training session, clapped his hands. “And I thought no one could beat the Crow! You are a sight Dragon Queen!” He chuckled and lifted his axe, gesturing it towards her. “But no one beats a Giantsbane!”

She smirked at him. Oh really? “Come down here and I’ll practice with you,” she challenged, spinning the sword out of the sheath, the way she had been practicing in the confines of her tent. So no one could see her drop it a hundred times.

Tormund laughed. “I don’t fight the pretty ladies,” he said, hopping down from his perch. He leered at her, grinning. “Wouldn’t mind getting you a drink though.”

She flicked at his beard, smiling. He was a character that was for sure. “You may be kissed by fire, as your people say, but I am fire,” she teased. He laughed, wrapping his arm around her waist and spinning her around. She giggled. Allowed herself to think that this was how an older brother would have treated her, had she had one who actually loved her.

Behind her, she heard a snort. “Tormund, leave her alone, she’d eat you for dinner.” Dare she wonder if she heard jealousy in Jon’s voice? She ignored it and he wrapped up Longclaw. He approached her, handing her the sword. 

For a brief moment, she considered taking it. Returning it to her tent where she kept it when they were not sparring. She reached for it and paused. It had been a year since he found her. His hair had grown and to her shock, he’d let one of the Dothraki women braid it from his face. When she had walked out to see it, she had almost torn out his hair then, so irritated he was becoming part of them. And they were letting him. He wore the leathers and the pelts and he went hunting with them. He’d even practiced with an arakh. 

She clenched her fingers and released them, saying nothing. All she did was tap the sword and turn away. She went over to the dragons, climbing up over the rocks to greet Silverwing, who was proving to be a little difficult to train. She stroked the pretty creature’s neck, cooing to her in Valyrian. Silverwing cooed back, but took off after a bird that captured her attention. She sighed. Drogon merely grumbled his disapproval.

Jon approached her, saying nothing of her allowance of him to take Longclaw back. He nodded towards Silverwing. “What is her problem?”

“She’s restless.” She looked down at him and then jogged to meet him, before striding towards her tent. “I am going to Myr today.” She stopped before she reached her tent. She glanced over her shoulder and frowned for a moment before calling out. “I want you to come with me.”

He faltered a bit, stopping behind her. “Ah…you…you want me to join you?”

When she had gone into Qohor, she had bound it to the Dragon’s Bay cities almost instantly. The moment the dragons flew over and she shouted her plans for the place and the promise of work and coin for rebuilding New Valyria, they had pledged themselves to her. To the blood of Old Valyria they chanted. Targaryen banners fell from the buildings and waved in the wind as she left. Bloodless, peaceful, it had been an easy win.

From there she had used the Second Sons to infiltrate Myr. To begin to root out any discontent. To gain intelligence on how best she should go about taking the city for the new Freehold. The tradesmen there were not happy with the idea of giving up their slaves, but when she said there would be common coin, made in Qohor and spread throughout the lands, the same everywhere, they grew intrigued. 

She still had not convinced the Myrish Magister Council to join her yet. They would not give up their slaves. She would have to see about that. The Unsullied were waiting on the outside of the city. What remained of them. She had legions of armies from the Dragon’s Bay cities. Former slaves who had created an armed force to protect themselves from the Sons of the Harpy or anyone else who wanted to return them to servitude. 

She went into her tent and put on a pretty blue dress over her dark gray pants. She tugged on her boots and clipped on a necklace that resembled a dragon claw. It reminded her of one of her previous outfits, but she purposefully covered her silver hair with a blue cloak. She turned and left the tent, walking to Drogon. Jon joined her and she no longer flinched when he climbed behind her on Drogon. 

They took off, flying east. He had left Longclaw and chose an arakh. She was glad for it; it would be too obvious and would likely get back to Westeros if someone started talking about a dark haired man with a Valyrian sword that had a white wolf pommel. He did not appear Dothraki, despite the sun turning his pale skin a dusky gold. The gray eyes and the long Northern face gave him away as someone from across the sea. Perhaps people would believe he had left to join their culture, maybe as a means of avoiding the ongoing wars and famine in Westeros. 

They flew for several hours until she landed Drogon outside of the city, where the Unsullied had a horse waiting for her. They rode in. Jon had questions, she could see it in his eyes, but he wisely kept his mouth closed. She kept the cloak over her hair and rode slowly through the streets, taking in the situation. She came to a stop in front of one of the establishments, recognizing one of Daario’s men. He nodded to her and she nodded back. “We will not be long,” she said, patting the horse’s neck. “Keep them until we return.”

“Yes Your Grace.”

The Second Sons still referred to her as a queen. She had stopped correcting them. She turned away and kept her arms beneath her cloak, Jon walking slowly beside her. “Why are we here,” he finally wondered, as they slowly walked through a marketplace. 

She nodded to the people, dirty and hungry, with black collars around their necks. “They are slaves Jon,” she murmured. She paused at a stall, fingering beautiful Myrish lace. All her clothing had come from here. Myr had the greatest seamstresses in the known world. She sighed and glanced at him. The horror in his face was what she was glad to see. “These are not slaves to the dead, the only slaves you have seen. These are slaves to the living.”

He said nothing, merely keeping close to her side as they went deeper into the markets. He stopped with her as she spoke with people, old women and men, and young children. She knelt and gave them coin and bought food. She felt peace. She was not a stranger here, a mysterious woman wearing a cloak like all the other women who landed here to purchase lace and glass and jewels.

They did not know that she was watching. She was learning. She would return here, she thought, stopping in front of one of the large mansions, where she knew one of the Myrish Magisters resided. She smiled at a small child who offered her a lemon, tugging on her skirt. She knelt down and offered the child a coin for the lemon, but he shook his head. 

The child was skinny, wearing tattered linen and a chain around his neck to signify his slave status. He leaned in, as though they had a secret, and whispered. “Mhysa.” He touched her hair, hidden beneath the cloak and smiled again. He patted her face. “Mhysa.”

Tears clouded her vision. She stood, still holding the lemon, the offering the child granted her. She watched as he slipped back into the crowd, disappearing from her view. Jon looked at her and to where the child had run off. “What did he say?” he whispered. 

She looked at the lemon and watched a tear fall onto the bright yellow skin. Her thumb dragged at the tear. “Mhysa,” she said. She cleared her throat and looked up at the mansion. “It’s what the slaves call me.”

“We should leave. If he knows who you are…” He immediately began to scan the crowds, his hand going to the arakh at his hip. 

Not yet, she thought, continuing to walk the streets. She bought some lace. Some fabrics for the Dothraki women to help her make into skirts. She found herself standing before another mansion, looking up at the balcony. There were slaves serving a fat man, one of the Magisters. She scowled and glanced at Jon. “We’re going to come back here.”

He followed her gaze and nodded. “Yes.”

They departed. Gathered their horses. She looked at the sellsword and spoke in Valyrian, so Jon would not hear her. “Soon,” she told him. He nodded in understanding. 

They returned to Drogon, waiting with the Unsullied. “Dany what are you planning on doing?” he asked, before she climbed atop the dragon. He leaned against the beast’s leg, frowning up at her. “Tell me.”

If I tell you and you disagree you will throw it in my face. She glared down at him. “What did you see there Jon Snow?” 

He glanced back to the city in the distance. He dropped his gaze, nodding at what she was getting at. “I saw people…suffering.”

“Hiding amongst the grand houses, the food, the tradesmen…for every one of these cities that claim to be free, they are supported by millions of enslaved people.” She jabbed her finger into her chest. “If I have come back to this world and it was not to rule the lands my family lost, then at least maybe I can do something for them.” She scowled. “You just may not like how I plan to do it.”

He closed his eyes. Let this be your test, she thought, waiting for him to climb up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and his lips brushed her ear. She hated her traitorous body, which leaned slightly into him at the touch. “Wherever you go, I will follow. I swear it.”

Very well then. She nudged Drogon and they took off. She would return to Myr soon. 

\--

The people below the balcony at the great building in Myr that housed the Magister Council chanted below. Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa, they called, waving their broken collars in the air. She stood atop the balcony wall, Drogon gripping the roof and screaming his approval of the success. She held Dark Sister aloft, the fire from the sword radiating down her arm, sending the silver wrist guards emblazoned with dragons vibrating against her.

She shouted in Valyrian. “You have freed yourselves!” The crowd went up into roars again. She pointed the sword towards the port, where ships were still aflame from where Drogon had sent a stream of fire on them. Only the ships that belonged to the Magisters, their pleasure crafts and personal vessels. She spun the sword around to point to the rest of the city. “The Magister Council is no more! You will vote for your leader, your people will have a voice! This is your day! The day the Myrenese took back their city and moved into the new world!”

They continued to cheer and she grinned, feeling elated, and her head spinning at the feelings within her. She looked out over the city, eyes dancing over what had occurred. The Second Sons had spread enough amongst the city to encourage the people to begin demanding wages from the tradesmen they served. The tradesmen, knowing full well what would happen if their slaves rebelled, began to pressure the Magisters. 

And when she swept in on Drogon, the day the Unsullied marched through the city and her Dothraki behind them, she challenged the Magisters. Did they want to peacefully allow the people to remove their chains, earn wages, and take on responsibility for the city? Or did they want to burn?

Two of the Magisters fell to their knee in front of her, agreeing to the terms. They saw the benefits in joining with the cities on Dragon’s Bay and Qohor. To assist in rebuilding Valyria, but the others did not. The five other Magisters called her a foreign queen who failed. One of them said she was a witch and deserved to burn. 

“I do not burn,” she told him. She arched an eyebrow. “But you will.”

To challenge her, he had grabbed a slave and stabbed him. Laughing at her and saying that she wouldn’t do it. Not after what she had done to King’s Landing. She had simply stared at him and then Drogon burned him where he stood. “I gave you a choice,” she said to the others. “And you will burn too like your friend.”

Some of them agreed and the others held firm. “Then you be a slave now too,” she simply said, flying away and swooping over the ports, burning their luxury, the thing they most held dear. 

It went on like that. She left and returned. Left and returned. 

Until finally the city was hers, the Magisters agreeing. Votes would be held for a new council. She had identified three tradesmen who were on her side who would make excellent new leaders, who would assist in bringing Myr into the new world, where they would immediately work on trading with the Dragon’s Bay cities and sending workers to Valyria. 

The people screamed for her, but she just grinned, throwing her arms into the air. “This is your day!” she shouted. She began to use the phrase that she had used in Astapor, when she gained her Unsullied and freed them from their bindings. “A dragon is not a slave!”

They began to chant it. She looked at Drogon, who roared his encouragement. Behind him, Silvering and the still unnamed dragon she had taken to simply calling No Name, and then back to the people. “You are all dragons now!”

Turning, she hopped off the wall and walked over to Grey Worm, who stood with her Dothraki commander Rono, and grinned, reaching to place her hands on his shoulders. “This is your day as well,” she whispered, tears swimming in her eyes. “You are a liberator.”

He bowed his head and closed his eyes. She wrapped her arms around him, trying not to cry herself. This would have been her day too, she thought, biting her lower lip so hard she drew blood. She pulled back and kissed his cheek, patting his chest. “Go, be with your men and celebrate this wonderful day.” She turned to Daario, who was also waiting, likely expecting something for his troubles. She swished her lips back and forth and merely smiled. “Thank you Daario, your men deserve celebration today for their work.”

He dropped his head and grinned up at her. “My Queen.”

Her stomach flipped at that title. She did not care for it. She simply nodded, let him kiss her fingers and stepped back. “I will depart now. I will be back to speak with the remaining Magisters about the way forward.”

Until then, she wanted to be alone. Daario, on the other hand, had different plans. He grabbed her wrist, spinning her back towards him. “Daenerys,” he drawled, arching his eyebrow. “You have been back now for what, almost five years? Please. I have been waiting patiently, but I won’t wait much longer.”

She flicked his hand off her, using a technique Tormund had taught her, and spun to pull him against her chest, her hand on a pulse point on his neck. He laughed, but then coughed as she pressed her fingers against the spot Tormund showed her. “Well you will have to keep waiting. Do not touch me,” she whispered. She felt her blood start to boil. “I have told you I do not wish to restart our relationship, regardless of your service to me. If you wish to leave the Second Sons to me or take them away, fine. I do not need you any longer.” She let go and moved away, not waiting to hear his response. 

Her heart beat wildly in her chest. She began to take shallow breaths and closed her eyes, terror sweeping over her at the feeling of the man grabbing her and pulling her without her permission. She took a few steadying breaths, ducking behind a column, and pressed her palm to her chest. She closed her eyes again and looked up at footsteps approaching. 

Jon stood before her, hand on Longclaw. He had removed the Dothraki clothing for this journey, back in his black clothing of the North. He still kept his hair braided and tugged from his face. He frowned. “Dany?”

“It’s nothing,” she mumbled, walking by him. She felt foolish.

“What happened?”

She shook her head and laughed. “Nothing, just someone wanting what they can’t have.” I of all people know that. She stopped, on her way up to the roof to join Drogon. She turned and looked down at him. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step up towards her. “I came with the Dothraki. I wanted to see.”

So he saw her speech at the top of the balcony wall. She stared at him for a moment. “And?” The last time he had watched her address her armies and her success, he had put a knife in her heart not long later. She felt shaky and touched the dagger at her hip. “What do you plan to do about it?”

He shook his head and smiled, taking another step towards her. “I thought you were magnificent. The people…their faces…” He looked down at the marble floor. “They can govern themselves…choose their leaders…it is quite something.”

It was and she helped to bring it about. She cleared her throat and nodded up. “I am leaving with Drogon.” She paused again. “Come with me.”

He waited a beat, looking over his shoulder, and lifted his gaze up to her. “What about that…that Daario fellow?” He waited a moment. Jealousy tinged his words. “He clearly wants you…there is something there.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You do not get to question me on romantic choices Jon,” she said. She felt the grip of Daario on her wrist again and coughed, looking away. “I am not asking him to ride with me.” She shook her head and shrugged, moving back towards the stairs. “Fine, I will go alone.”

“No, wait…I’ll come.”

Good, because she did not feel as though she wanted to be alone right now. She couldn’t even explain it. She really could not explain why she wanted him with her at that moment. She lightly touched the dagger. If he tried anything, she could fight back now. That was something. She went upstairs and went to Drogon, climbing atop him. She waited another moment and Jon joined. 

The people continued to cheer and chant. The Targaryen banners waved from the great houses and towers. This was how it should have been, she thought, smiling at everyone. She lifted her hand, although they likely could not see her, and guided Drogon to the skies. 

They flew lazily around the city, swooping down and around Myr, buzzing by the red temple where the priests and priestesses cheered, many of them former slaves, and she went over the bay, noting that they would need to remove the burned ships quickly. She gazed to the horizon, in the direction of Pentos. If she could add Pentos to her united cities…she took a deep breath. She had an ally there. She could do it. 

To the south lay Tyrosh. Daario’s home. The Tyroshi were vibrant people, who clung to life and lived it to the fullest. She glanced down at Myr. The sellswords of Myr would pledge themselves to her, she thought. She paid the best. The coin she had found in Valyria, the coin she would generate from the trade between Myr and the other cities. 

Economy would force them to fall to her. No slavery could mean they would have to make their own money and not benefit off the backs of the people. She pushed at Drogon’s side and he moved to the sea. They flew long and slow, taking their time as they dove to the water and up to the clouds. 

The sun began to set when they made their way to the encampment outside of Myr, where she landed Drogon far outside in the sand, so he would not knock over the tents and startle the horses. She climbed off, Jon behind her. She stopped and turned, unsure what to say. 

He smiled. “I should stay with Tormund. If Grey Worm sees me…”

“Yes,” she agreed. She had told Grey Worm about Jon’s arrival, but he had been oddly quiet about. She feared his reaction if he actually saw Jon. She set off towards the camp. 

They said nothing. It was comforting, just the sounds of their boots on the ground. She stopped on the outskirts of the Dothraki camp, where his tent was beside Tormund’s. He frowned at the sounds coming from the camp and she grinned. “The Dothraki have interesting celebrations when they win,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow at a sound that came from Tormund’s tent. “Gods. He didn’t even do anything! Why is he celebrating?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She poked at his shoulder. “Don’t be a prude. Welcome to the khalasar.” She turned away and went to her tent, shedding the sword, her light armor, the only concession she had made to him, and sank into the bath that some of the handmaidens had dragged in for her. The water was lukewarm, but it felt good to at least scrub some of the dirt off her face and hands.

She rinsed off, rubbed some of her oils into her skin, and slipped on a Myrish silk gown, not her usual linen shift, wanting to feel…different. It was a different night. She climbed onto her pallet and stared up at the hole in the ceiling of the tent, to allow the smoke from the rumbling fire to escape. In between the wisps of smoke, she could see the moon and the stars. 

The great khals were looking down. She lifted her finger and pointed to the brightest star in the sky, close to the moon, and smiled to herself. “My sun and stars,” she murmured. Khal Drogo would be proud of me, she thought, or she hoped. She looked to the second brightest star. Rhaego, she thought, in the Nightlands. Where he was a little boy, happy and healthy, riding stallions with his great father. 

A tear trickled out of her eye and she brushed it, angry with herself. She lifted her head slightly when her tent swished open. Jon stood there, returned to his Northern shirt and breeches, but his feet were bare. “What are you doing?” she demanded, forcing herself up. She sighed. “And why can you not announce yourself?”

He only shrugged. “Grew up with five siblings.”

She smirked. Whatever that was supposed to mean. She pulled a blanket up over her, acutely aware at how thin the silk slip was. Her braids were tugged out, and her hair dusted her shoulders. She frowned now. “What do you want?”

His gaze had locked onto something. She followed it, slightly quizzical and reached he was looking at her side. The blanket dropped and she touched the edge of the scar that peeked from the side of the slip. It was the first he had seen it in some time. He shook his head again, moving to leave. “I can’t…”

“Don’t go.”

What possessed her? She could hear the khalasar around her, everyone celebrating, drinking and fucking and screaming into the night. The khaleesi should have been partaking, but she simply couldn’t anymore. Sometimes she drank with them, but she had never been fond of how she felt and how her mind would fade the more she drank. Now more than ever she needed her mind, she was so scared of it leaving her again. As for fucking, well…she would never do that again, she thought. She would never trust her body with another man again. 

She swallowed hard and pulled the blanket back. “Just…sit with me.”

He waited a moment and nodded. He sank beside her and lay down next to her. They were still a couple feet apart, not touching. Both staring up at the sky. He pointed out a series of stars. “The Free Folk call that one the Great Bear.”

My bear, she thought, her heart yearning for her bear. Jorah, she thought, blinking through tears. He would be so happy to see what was happening. She pointed up to it. “The Dothraki call it the Mighty Stallion.”

“That is the Soup Ladle.”

“No, it’s the Arakh.”

They traded names for the stars back and forth. The Free Folk reminded her of the Dothraki or maybe it was vice versa. Nomadic people who lived their lives regardless of what anyone else thought. Celebrated and lived and had their families. Family, she thought, pointing to the bright star again. “I call that one Rhaego.”

He turned his head on the pillow. “Your son?”

She blinked back tears again. “Yes. He was monstrous when he was born. Dead, winged…rotting.” That should have been my first clue, she thought, blinking hard again. The first clue that I would never have what I wanted most. She released a hard sob. “But he was my baby.”

“I am so sorry Dany.” 

She shook her head, whispering. “I thought I would never have a child again after that…but then…” Her fingers clutched at her stomach. She heard the sound he made and clenched her eyes tight. “I didn’t mean…” She was no longer so angry at him anymore. Each time she saw him, she didn’t want to kill him as he had her. The pain was not as raw and furious. It was just a dull ache now. Longing for what could have been. She turned, tears falling down her face. “I didn’t mean it like that…I know you are sorry.”

I just still can’t forgive it yet. Or ever.

Jon shook his head, his eyes wet. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “I know…I know you know, but…believe me I cannot forgive myself either. It was a mistake and one I can never take back.”

She believed him. For some reason she believed him. 

“What do you think she would have been like?”

The question startled her. She had not allowed herself to think of it. Not allowed herself to even give the child a name. Even when she held the bloody blanket Kinvara had placed in her arms, her baby so tiny and blue and gone. She shook her head. “I don’t know. We’ll never know.” 

He didn’t say anything after that. Eventually she fell asleep, lulled by his light breathing beside her. She found him in the middle of the night, waking to realize she was burrowed against his chest, her nose almost in one of his scars. His fingers were resting on her side, near her own fatal wound.

In sleep he looked almost like a child, the lines at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead smoothed and his lashes dusting his cheek. She smiled a little and untangled herself, cursing her traitorous body that had gone to him. She turned and fell back asleep.

When she woke in the morning, he was gone, but she could still smell him on her pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great reviews! Posting this chapter a bit early because I may not be able to upload tomorrow. I'm waaaay ahead of my writing schedule and have the story mapped completely out. Hint to come: Chapter 23 the rating is likely going to increase ;P
> 
> Next time (it's a short one unfortunately): Grey Worm meets Jon again and tensions rise; Dany gives Jon a bit of Targaryen history.


	6. Dragon Figurines (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets Grey Worm again and Dany gives Jon a bit of Westerosi history.

_Five and Half Years After Death_

Myr was a fascinating place, Jon thought, wandering through the markets. He had a hood up over his head, keeping him somewhat anonymous in the large city bustling with people. Every so often he spotted a Westerosi, usually a Dornishman, and when he did, he turned the other way. 

He heard snippets of the conversations with them. Westeros was turning into nothing; it was eating itself alive. Ironborn raided and the North starved. He closed his eyes at that news, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He had been King in the North for all of a few moments before he saw just what Daenerys could do and the type of person she was. Yes, she had ordered him to bend the knee moments after she arrived in Westeros, but she had respected his place as King. Allowed them to mine the dragonglass. Saved them about the wall on Tyrion’s suicide mission and lost a child for it. 

And I lied to her, thinking they would learn to love her as I did. Sansa had betrayed him, broken the vows. He wondered what the Northmen would think knowing that she had defied the gods like that. Perhaps this was her punishment. She was queen of a dying kingdom. Bran had accepted the role as King when he could have denied it. He was failing too. Tyrion deserve this, he thought, thinking of the man he once thought was the smartest in the world and now realized was only smart when it served his interests.

He stopped at a stall and bought an orange, paying with one of the new coins they had begun to circulate. The woman lit up and took the coin. “Let the gods shine down on the Breaker of Chains,” she said, as she handed him the money. He smiled slightly and nodded. 

The Valyrian they spoke in Myr was different from what he heard her speak. Robb had never taken Valyrian lessons with Maester Luwin, so he did not know one word of it, until now. He was picking up Dothraki quickly; it was similar to the Old Tongue that he heard some of the elder Free Folk speak when they told stories over the fires at night. 

He looked up at the large mansion that housed the new Magister Council of Myr. Drogon flew overhead, reminding anyone who came into port just who was in charge these days. He shed his cloak as he approached the mansion, nodding to the two Unsullied who allowed him entry as he passed. He walked up to the main room, hearing arguing in Valyrian, so fast he could not follow, but he heard Dany’s anger in her words to someone.

Holding the orange tightly in one hand, he stepped towards her, but heard another yell. He whipped his head sideways and ducked as Grey Worm lunged towards him. He didn’t have Longclaw, but he would not draw the sword anyways. This was someone who had been training in combat since he was an infant and he fell back as Grey Worm wrapped his arm around his neck, a knife at his throat.

“_Torgo Nhudo!_” Dany shouted, coming from around a large marble table. “Stop it! Drop the knife!”

In broken Common Tongue, Grey Worm spoke. “I said I kill you one day,” he growled. “Now.”

He closed his eyes. “Kill me! Just do it!” It was more than he deserved at this point. When Drogon hadn’t flayed him, as much as he wanted it, he had been expecting the Unsullied commander to do it. He was even furious with his sisters for not allowing it to happen. He supposed now was the time. 

“Hey Queen Dragon, what do you call these…” Tormund walked in, holding a bunch of grapes in his hand and his lips stained purple from eating too many. He dropped the grapes and grabbed his knife from his boot. “Let go of my Crow!”

“All of you drop your weapons!” Dany bellowed. She pointed to Tormund. “Now!” Another point to Grey Worm. “And you too!” They listened, hearing the imperiousness in her voice. She glared at everyone. “You are all acting like children.”

She addressed Grey Worm, speaking to him so quickly that Jon could not follow. He stepped to Tormund, lightly patting his friend on the chest. “Thank you,” he said. “But unnecessary.”

“No one kills King Crow but me.”

That was comforting. Somewhat. He turned, facing Grey Worm, who just glared at him. He was obviously standing down because of an order Dany gave, but Jon knew the man would kill him if she were not there. If they were back where they were before in King’s Landing. He lightly dropped his head, speaking slowly, so Dany could translate into Valyrian. “I can never forgive myself for what I did, but I want you to know it was a mistake. I regret it with all my heart and what life I have left to give, I give it for Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. She has my sword and I will fall on it…if she requests.” 

Dany glanced at him at that last statement, but simply said it in Valyrian. Or maybe she was giving an order for her commander to imprison him. Jon didn’t care. He waited as Grey Worm processed whatever it was she had said. He finally nodded, ever so slightly. “You hurt her. I kill you,” he said.

That is more than fair after what I have done. He acknowledged the man’s words. “It is what I would deserve, so thank you.”

“Well then I kill you,” Tormund said, pointing his knife to Grey Worm. 

Grey Worm let a tiny smile pull on his lips. “She dies…then I have nothing.”

Believe me, I understand that, Jon thought. He glanced at Dany, who was scowling at them all. She turned, her boot heels clicking on the ornate tiled floor. “Now that that is done.” She looked at Tormund and the grapes on the floor. “Those are called grapes, Tormund. We use them to make wine.”

“What!?”

“Yes. Go down to the kitchens and perhaps they can show you.” She looked at Grey Worm, said something, and he nodded, bowing his head and walking away, but not without another dark look at Jon. She was alone with him. She lifted her fingers, beckoning him to come forward to the table. 

There was a large map spread out and she had some carved figures representing the armies now under her command. She pointed to the island of Lys. “I want this next, but once we do, that will send notice to Westeros that I have returned.” She looked over at him. “And I am not ready for that yet.”

He narrowed his eyes. Was she serious? How could that even be? “Are you saying no one there knows you have returned?”

She tapped her fingertips on the edge of the table. It was a nervous gesture he had witnessed her do many times at Dragonstone. She shook her head, her voice quiet. “I was angry. So angry…I sent a letter to Tyrion Lannister.” She lifted her gaze. A smile pulled on her lips. “I warned him not to meddle in the affairs of Essos. I said what would happen if he did and…” she lifted her shoulder, looking back at the table and lightly touching one of the horse symbols. “And I may have said I would take back what was mine with fire and blood…what they stole from my family…thrice over.”

Damnit. He dropped his shoulders, shaking his head. “Dany…”

“I was furious!” She spun and faced him, laughing. “You had to be angry with the men who killed you, yes? You executed them, did you not? Well you got away with my murder and Tyrion Lannister became the Hand of the King. He deserves to pay for what he did to me and yes; I wanted to come back. I wanted to get on the back of Drogon and burn them all again!” She sobbed. “And then…I can’t. I just can’t begin to care anymore about what happens to them.” She looked at the table. “They did not want me. I will not deal with them any longer.”

He understood. Gods he understood, but…he frowned. “Thrice?” 

“What?”

“You said thrice over. Once was your father, second was you and third…” he trailed off. She refused to meet his gaze, finding the horse figure quite fascinating. He closed his eyes. Gods. “Dany…they did not take it from me, I did not want the throne!”

She hurled the figure at him and he dodged it, glaring. “Yes they did!” she exclaimed. She grabbed another figurine and threw it at him. He took one and threw it at her too. They squared off for a moment, glaring. Suddenly, she spun away from him and strode to the archways that looked over the city. She tapped her fingers again in the nervous tic. Sunlight glinted off the dragon clip that held back her hair from her face. A gift from a little girl in the markets, he remembered. “They stole it from you, whether you wanted it or not…” She glanced over her shoulder. “Aegon.”

The named his mother had granted on him at birth gave him shivers. He was not an Aegon, he thought. He was Jon. Always had been. “They did not steal it,” he mumbled, too weak to fight her on this topic. He knew in his heart in a way they did. They sent him to the Wall. Forced him to take the black again. He looked over at her again. “Tyrion Lannister sent me to the Wall.”

“Tell me Jon Snow, if you took on the role as Aegon VI Targaryen and became the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Ruler of the Andals and the Rhyonar and the First Men…” she trailed off. Her eyebrows arched. “What would you have done to Tyrion Lannister? His family were traitors. They murdered your half-brother and half-sister. Killed your grandfather. They cut off the head of the man who raised you, protected your secret until his last breath, and did unspeakable things to your siblings. We are not our family or our blood, that is the argument yes?” She smirked, her voice a whisper, her words ripping into his stomach, making him feel ill. “But that was the argument he used against me.”

He closed his eyes. “Dany you were not yourself…you were someone else…we could not…I could not…”

Dany interrupted. “Maybe I would have killed your sisters or maybe you could have convinced me not to, but we will never know. In the end, you did as Tyrion bid, and he is living his life in the Red Keep advising the king and I died.” She shook her head, whispering. “And I would have killed him, you know it and you know he would have deserved it for you have killed for less.”

She was right, he had. Tyrion Lannister had betrayed her, given her poor council resulting in the deaths of her children and thousands of her men… He nodded, closing his eyes. “And Tyrion survived.”

“Is that not all he has bragged about his entire life? Surviving when he should have died? Growing up at the hands of a murderous father and sister? Claiming he freed his brother because his brother was the only one who was kind?” She walked over to him and her face was oddly calm. 

A jolt went through his heart. It was the tone she had been using that awful day in the former throne room. She lifted her eyebrows again, whispering. “And here you are Jon Snow. Night’s Watch deserter and true heir to the throne. So yes, when I learned that information I sent him notice. I warned him.” Tears began to waver in her eyes. “And then afterward I felt nothing. Nothing but shame and guilt and a willingness to die for what I had done in those moments of rage. I lost all that had been taken from my family. I lost my life and my child and my murderer walked free but could not take the one thing that my family had built and fought for and I was just…” she trailed off again, waving her hand to mimic a bird flying away. She laughed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

It did matter though. He reached for her, but she stepped out of his grasp. He understood her pain and he wished he could make it go away. They were two people who had thought they could save…everyone. In the end it didn’t matter. In the end here they were. Two people who had died at the hands of people they trusted, only to rise again and then what? 

What is our purpose now, he wondered, looking at the people below. Hers was to free them. What was his? He closed his eyes. To make up for what he had done. All he wanted was to make up for what he did to her. To deliver her family’s sword to where it had been forged, to where he thought maybe he might foolishly find her body, to mourn and maybe even face the fire himself. 

And now…now he was here. For better or worse, he thought, he was here. 

He stood beside her, gazing out again at the city. “Now what?” he murmured. 

She glanced sideways. “I rule.” She turned away and went back to the map, pointing. “As I said…Lys will fall but it will be too much. I want Pentos. Volantis…Braavos.” 

“Braavos has always been a Free City.”

“Their Sealord rules for life and this current one is turning against the city’s ideals,” she explained, pointing to the northernmost of the nine cities. She shook her head, whispering. “It will fall eventually, but will take time. If I convince the Iron Bank that my rule is in their best interests, the Sealord of Braavos will join me and Braavos can remain a Free City, so long as they continue their freedom of religion, speech, and no slavery. They will use my coin and they will serve on my council.” 

The idea was…he lifted his eyes to hers. “Ambitious.”

“It is possible,” she said. She pointed at Braavos again. “The Iron Bank pays for who they think will be in their best interests. Cersei Lannister took a loan that was never repaid so she could purchase the Golden Company.” She smirked. “Do you know who founded the Golden Company, Jon?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say I have.” The smile pulled on her lips and she lifted up a dragon figure, waving it back and forth slowly. He stared at it for a moment. Until it clicked. He cocked his head. “Really?”

She nodded. “Aegor Rivers, a legitimized bastard son of King Aegon IV Targaryen.” She tossed the dragon figure at him and he caught it, staring at it. She cocked her head slightly, her voice soft. “No one in your world seems to realize the expanse of my family’s involvement in the politics of this world.” She swallowed hard. “When I was a little girl Viserys tried to get them to our side with that same argument and they laughed at him.” She smiled again. “They always back the winning side, even turning in the middle of a battle. They did not do that against Cersei Lannister and their remaining forces in Essos will fight for me.” 

He looked at the figure again. “If they do not?”

“They will. I have the coin and I have the history and above all else.” She picked up another dragon figure, pondering it for a moment, her voice faraway. “I am not my brother.”

Even in their most intimate of moments, sharing stories of their childhood over wine and bread in her chambers on the ship, when they were just Jon and Dany, two stupid fools, he never heard her speak much about her brother. She chose to speak of Rhaegar and how she wished to have known him. He set down the figurine and walked around to lean next to her against the table. He touched his fingers against hers lightly. “You are not,” he whispered.

She smiled. “They say you are though. Like my brother.”

He stiffened, not wanting to talk about Rhaegar Targaryen. He looked at the intricately tiled flooring and shook his head. “I am not a Targaryen…I am not even a Stark.” 

Her lips quirked. “No. You’re Jon Snow.”

They locked eyes for a long moment. He wasn’t sure what he saw in her violet irises. It wasn’t forgiveness, he would likely never see that and nor should he. Encouragement? Trust? Seven hells, he thought, finally breaking the contact. He cleared his throat and stood quickly, returning to the map. “So…Braavos, yes?”

She shook her head and pointed. He looked at her finger and frowned. “Dany that’s…”

“I know.”

“The largest free city in Essos?”

“Yes. It falls and they all fall.” She looked up at him, still smiling. “Are you with me Jon Snow?” She gestured to the door. “Because you are not my hostage. You are free to return to Westeros anytime you please. Gods know I would assist you in your departure as I still do not want you here.” The venom with which she used to say that was no longer. He didn’t believe her. 

Should he return? He had been gone for almost three years now. Took him a year to get to her. A year and a half now and he…he sighed. He missed Ghost, still with the Free Folk in Hardhome, where he had left him when they boarded the ship to White Harbor and then to Essos. One day he would need to return, if only to pay for his crime of desertion. If that was even a concern any more, given there was no purpose for the Night’s Watch. He looked back at the table. 

And he nodded.

“Yes, I’m with you.”

Dany leaned over and rolled up the map. “Very well. Let’s go to Volantis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not a good chapter, sorry, I just wanted to put it down on paper somewhere the idiocy of having the GC fight for Cersei in the show when the alternative is a Targaryen with dragons. Anyways, c'est la vie.
> 
> Next Time: Dany visits Braavos in secret; Jon learns about his favorite sibling's skills.


	7. A Queen Learns (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinvara tells Dany what her future holds; Dany visits the House of Black and White and confronts Jon with what she learns there.

_Six Years After Death_

The once barren streets of Valyria seemed to bustle with excitement as people moved up and down, clearing stone and rebuilding the walls. They had just finished installing a great gate at one end of a strait and were working on a second. One of the Qohor smiths had just finished with a massive dragon, inlayed with jade and bronze at the main gate and was working on the second to be inlayed with pearl and silver. 

My beautiful sons, she thought, the images of Rhaegal and Viserion flooding her view. They would have loved to be with their brother, roaming the skies above. Silverwing and No Name were also with them, growing large. No Name was almost full size, startling her at the explosiveness of his growth in the last year and a half.

She sipped at the cup of wine in her fingers, watching below as Jon assisted some tradesmen with installing the glass around the spire she had decided to call her home here. She would stay in Vaes Dothrak for now, until Valyria could get more inhabitants. They would have many soon, as former slaves from Myr and Volantis began to make their way south.

She turned away from the arch and went down through the castle, emerging in a courtyard. It was still barren, but she imagined one day she would plant beautiful flowers and a lemon tree. She went to a tower that was within the castle’s walls, that she was turning into a rookery for the dragons. 

Silverwing landed before her, dropping a sheep in front of her before roasting it. “Lovely,” she said, smiling at the beauty. She lightly stroked Silverwing’s frill. “I know there are more of you,” she murmured. Somewhere. 

The dragon finished eating and took off again, not wanting to miss anything with the others. 

Dany returned to the solar, looking at the map that was painted on the wall, documenting her campaign. “Volantis, Qohor, Myr, Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen,” she said, touching the cities as she said them. She stared up at Braavos. The one she truly wanted. 

She turned at the sound of a visitor, smiling as Kinvara approached. “What brings you to visit Valyria?” she asked. 

“Your conquring of Volantis was inspiring, Your Grace.”

“It was easier than I thought.” Volantis was a city of slaves and the Triarch was corrupt. It had not been difficult to get them to agree to her terms when she was able to turn one of them to her side. He betrayed the other two and seized their armies and support. When they refused to listen or agree to her terms to simply allow free elections, she offered them exile with their remaining riches or to burn. 

They chose to burn.

That had been a hard day; Jon was with her, she thought. He hadn’t said anything afterward. When she confronted him on what he believed she should have done, he simply said that she gave them a choice and they took it. 

What am I without my dragons, she thought. She looked at Kinvara. “It was also not conquering. I simply gave them a choice.”

“Every one of the cities are thriving.” Kinvara’s dark eyes sparkled. “And yet you still wish for Braavos.”

“I wish for a lot of things.” Pentos would be an easy target. She had already sent messages to Ilyrio Mopatis. He had written already saying that he was at her full command, he would get the Magisters of Pentos to bend their knee. It would take only another few months. She was holding him to that. 

Kinvara touched her fingertips to the candle burning in the center of the table, bringing the fire further towards her. Dany watched it dance in her eyes as she peered into the flames. She turned her head slowly, whispering. “You must go to the shadow.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

“Yes, I understand Quaithe has been to visit.”

“She is still here.” In the libraries. She had been wary of the shadowbinder, who said that she had met Jorah Mormont in Qarth and would serve her as needed. The mask that Quaithe wore frightened her a bit; she preferred to look at the full visage of someone so she could truly understand their motives. She was also suspicious if only because the last experience she had with a maegi had resulted in the death of her child and husband. So far Quaithe had been incredibly helpful, working on identifying the mysteries of Valyria and what secrets it held deep. Secrets about the dragons and magic and what ultimately happened here. 

They left her solar and descended into the libraries, where Kinvara reached for a book, found deep in the depths of a ruined castle on another island. The Valryian peninsula had exploded from the mainland after the Doom, sending everything to ash, but some things had survived, like Silverwing’s egg, hidden deep in the ground. The books were written in Old Valyrian, a language very few people understood and took time to identify. Some ruins they would never be able to understand, lost to the ages.

She opened the book and turned it. “Your Grace,” she said, pointing. “We believe you must travel through the shadow to find what it is you seek.”

“To find the light you must pass through the shadow,” Quaithe spoke, her voice somewhat muffled behind her mask. 

I will die there. All she knew of the Shadowlands were the horror stories Viserys would tell her when she was a child. They kept her up for nights on end, crying and wishing she had a comforter and not a tormentor. She touched the drawing of a dragon bursting forth from the ground, a series of mountains in the background, with a river running through, and bright green. She traced the river drawing with her fingertip, feeling as though she had seen it before. 

Quaithe, likely reading her mind, pushing forward a parchment of a map of Essos. She looked at it and traced the river, whispering. “The River Ash…it glows green at night, does it not?”

“It does.”

“The dragons are from the Shadowlands,” she murmured. She swallowed hard. “You cannot eat or drink anything from there…the ghost grass will swallow the sea…” The Dothraki believed that was how the world would end. She had heard of cities of bloodless men and bones… 

Quaithe leaned forward, her voice hollow and echoing, almost vibrating through Dany’s bones. “Remember who you are. The dragons know.”

Who am I, she wondered, still staring at the image in the ancient text. She swallowed hard again. “I cannot go there,” she whispered. She shook her head, feeling clammy. Her hands sweat and she had never felt fear like this before. “I cannot go. I could die.”

“You already have,” Kinvara murmured, her dark eyes wide and sparkling.

Dark Sister burned on her hip. She had the sword of her warrior ancestor. She had her dragon, an extension of herself. She was a Valyrian. She wanted to bring forth the mysteries of her family’s past, which included the dragons. More dragons. If they existed they needed to come forth. She could help that happen. She shook her head. “I am not ready,” she murmured. 

To her surprise, Kinvara nodded, keeping her head bowed. “Very well. In time then. You have five cities to your command, Your Grace. Your armies are growing. You must fly to Braavos. There you will learn of a girl.” She smiled again, mysterious, and looking away. “A man will tell you about a girl. A girl who did not become faceless. A girl who stayed a wolf.”

What? She frowned, shaking her head slightly. Between Quaithe and Kinvara, her head was swimming with cryptic words. She gripped the pommel of Dark Sister. “I do not understand.”

“The House of Black and White is where you will find the information a man needs.” She smiled again, her hands folding in front of her. “A man who thinks he is still a wolf. A man needs the information about a girl before he can become a dragon.”

Jon. They were talking about Jon. She shook her head slightly and merely nodded. Kinvara thus far had not led her astray, as cryptic as the words were. She turned, leaving the mysterious women to their studies. She wandered, her castle mostly complete, and found herself moving to where Drogon had made his nest, charred animals bones scattered around. 

He had been sleeping and lifted his great head at her approach. “We are going to Braavos,” she said to him, rubbing at his snout. She murmured to him in Valyrian, frowning slightly. “But I will need to go alone.” 

“Going somewhere?”

She turned her head quickly to see Jon approaching. She thought of what Kinvara had said. The House of Black and White. She knew little about what went on there; although she had heard things about the Faceless Men. Viserys told her he would pay them to kill King Robert for him, to help him become the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but he had no money. She had to imagine it was expensive to hire an assassin.

The idea that someone would pay another person to kill someone and there were those who trained in doing it…she did not think Jon would one, allow her to go not he allowed her to go anywhere, and two, it would offend his sensibilities, the man who had murdered her and forsaken his honor. She narrowed her eyes and turned away. “Norvos,” she lied.

“Norvos? Now?”

“Hmm…” 

He stepped beside her. There was something in his eyes; he knew her too well, she thought. He kept watching her as she climbed up onto Drogon. “Norvos,” he confirmed again.

She did not look at him, could not bring herself to at the moment. “I will see you in some time,” she said and took off, Drogon kicking up sand and dirt around him. She was not sure what she would find in Braavos. She needed to go in quietly, but thankfully it was a city of millions. The cloak she wore covered her hair, cut close to her scalp again as her shame for losing King’s Landing. She was in dark gray and kept to the shadows as she flew, not wanting word to spread of the great dragon.

It took a long time, from Valyria to Braavos, and she had to stop a couple of times to rest Drogon and allow him to hunt. She arrived in the city later the following day, landing just quick enough to hop off Drogon and send him off, before disappearing into the throngs of people as they arrived from all over Essos. To her shock, she encountered plenty of Westerosi as well. She walked through the crowds for a time, taking in everyone and everything.

The languages and the cultures and the religions. This was a place of freedom and it should remain such, she thought, looking up at the flags of all faiths and cities. She stopped hard in her tracks, staring at a woman and child. The woman’s entire side was shiny and red with burns. They spoke the Common Tongue and begged for food. Oh, she thought, her mouth falling open slightly. 

“Please, please,” the woman begged, offering her gnarled hand. “Please anything…anything…”

She ducked her head as they approached, reaching into her pocket and removing a handful of coin. She strode towards the woman, pausing long enough to press the pouch of coin into her hand, whispering. “Go to Volantis, you will find help and healing there.” She moved on, not looking back, because if she did she thought she might fall to the ground and weep, forgetting her mission.

I did that, I did that, that was me, that was me.

No it wasn’t, no it wasn’t. You didn’t, you didn’t.

The words chanted over and over in her mind. The warring of both sides of her. The violent dragon and the beloved mother. She swallowed hard, her throat feeling as though there were lumps forming with each breath, drowning her. 

The House of Black and White stood tall as she arrived.

She was the only one, walking up the steps slowly and in her gray cloak. Fitting, she thought, as she stopped at the tower. The last time she had entered a strange tower called House of whatever, it had been the House of the Undying and she had seen her future. Her end. Her beginning. Her dragons had committed their first murders there for her. Big as cats, cooing and cuddling her when she rescued them, smiling at the sounds of the warlock screaming as he burned.

What will I find here?

Was that always who I was, she wondered, a murderer?

She lifted her knuckles and rapped on the door; she had to find out what was here. If Kinvara sent her for information, it must have been important. She waited and the door opened, a man standing there, in a mottled white and black cloak, with red hair that had a streak of white brushing the side of his face. He stared at her for a moment. “_Valar Morghulis_,” he greeted.

“_Valar Dohaeris_.”

“A man wonders what a queen is doing on his steps.”

Lorath, she suddenly realized, wondering why Kinvara had been speaking in that distinctive pattern. Lorathi do not refer to themselves, considering it rude, she remembered. She had not spent time there, but it was on her list of cities to unite. She bowed her head slightly. “A queen wonders if a man would answer some questions for her.” She paused, seeing his curious look. “About a girl with the last name Stark.”

He gave no acknowledgment of the name, but simply bowed his head slightly. “A queen is welcome here.” 

Suddenly they were inside a cavernous room with a pool of water and tiny alcoves. In every alcove there was a face. Dany tried not to show her shock. She had heard things of course, but this…she slid her gaze to the Faceless Man and eventually turned. “A queen will not lose her face today,” she reminded him, smiling slightly. “Unless of course…a man has been paid.”

The Faceless Man merely nodded again. “A man has not paid for your death.”

“A queen is grateful.” She waited another beat. “Arya Stark. Tell me.”

“Arya Stark is No One.”

“No One is not Arya Stark,” she replied. 

The man simply smiled and nodded again. “A man will answer your questions.” He frowned. “For a wolf did not become No One and a wolf used a man’s training for personal reasons.” He shook his head. “And a man does not like that.”

Dany smiled again. She had a feeling she was going to walk out of the House of Black and White with some valuable information.

\--

The Faceless Man told her things she wished she did not know. She would never be able to forget them. She reconciled them almost immediately with what she knew of the youngest Stark daughter and all it did was make her want to be sick. The girl who Jon loved the most of all his siblings, the one he talked about endlessly on the boat to White Harbor from Dragonstone…little Arya, the one most like a wolf, who did not care that he was a bastard and who fought with her sister and shot a bow and arrow better than the boys…

His perfect little Arya was a murderer too. An assassin. 

They went after me; she fumed, landing Drogon outside of her spire in Valyria with a thunder loud enough to shake the foundation. She climbed off of him and knew he was angry too, the way he kept shaking his head and screeching. Silverwing took off at the glare he shot in her direction when she approached, wisely escaping the elder’s wrath. No Name flew down, almost as large as Drogon was when she flew to Westeros. He screeched and spread his wings out, almost as if to challenge the twice larger dragon.

He was posturing, she thought, peering around him to see Jon walking towards them. She glared at No Name, the little traitor who wanted to protect Jon over his mother, and stormed towards him. “Hey,” he called, jogging towards her and lifting his hand. “How was Norv….”

Her hand cracked across his cheek, the ring she wore on her right hand splitting his lip. He whipped his head back to look at her, eyes wide in surprise. He spit out blood and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. She heaved her breaths, wanting nothing more than to jump on him and start beating him. She grabbed the dagger from her hip when he took a large step towards her, holding it aloft at the same time that Drogon screamed above. 

Don’t, she thought, eyes wide on his. He stared at the dagger and held his hands up, wisely stepping back. “If you wield that at me after you coldcock me, you better have an explanation,” he said, his voice steady. He arched an eyebrow, glaring. “You didn’t go to Norvos.”

That caught her off kilter. “How…”

“You flew the wrong direction. Rono saw you on his way from Tyrosh.” 

She muttered under her breath in Valyrian, cursing the Dothraki lord. The cloak she wore whipped around her as she turned. She waited a moment. He had to know. She fought through her anger, trying to quell the dragon building fire within. Her eyes clenched shut. “I was in Braavos,” she began. She balled her fists, the dagger burning into her palm. She tilted her head back, looking at the sky. “And I went to the House of Black and White.”

“And that makes you want to hit me?” He shot a look at Drogon and gestured. “And he wants to kill me?” He walked around to face her again, staring at her. There was confusion etched in his forehead, more creased than normal. The braids pulling his hair from his face only made his concern more pronounced. He narrowed his eyes, quizzical. “What is the House of Black and White?”

“The place in Braavos that trains assassins called the Faceless Men,” she said, her voice hollow. He tensed. She knew he did not like when she spoke like that. Emotion removed from her words. It reminded him of the throne room. Well she wanted to remind him of when he feared her wrath. Feared her murderous behavior in favor of his perfect sisters. “And the place where your little sister, your Arya Stark, trained for over a year.”

He blinked, no emotion registering. He shook his head slightly, the frown creasing further as he bunched his eyebrows together. “What?” He laughed. “What are you talking about?”

So she told him. Told him what the assassin told her of the girl who had a list of names of people she wanted to die, who saved three lives and owed death three lives. The girl who learned to wield a blade, tear faces off of dead men and wear them again, and the girl who became No One. 

She pushed at his shoulder, tears threatening to fall. “And you saved her,” she laughed. He was weak, hardly moving as she spoke. She pushed him hard again, forcing him back a few steps. “You thought I was the murderer? Fine Jon, I know I am! I killed men and women and children! I burned them with my dragon out of anger and hatred and I regret it and live with it and the man I loved killed me for it!” She began to cry. “And your sister destroyed an entire family in revenge! Widowed women and made children fatherless, all because of what their father did to her family!” She sobbed. "And from what it seems she does not regret it one bit! At least I do!"

And I did the same to mine because of what they did to my family, she thought, sniffing her tears. She jabbed her finger at him, at his horrified look. “She was there in King’s Landing, I saw her. Why do you think she was there? Cersei Lannister was on her list of names! I killed her before she could! Your sister stood there and told you how she didn’t trust me and turned you against me after I lost my children for your fucking cause and your fucking honor and fucking Winterfell and you fucking Starks!” 

The words were out before she knew and she fell backwards, shaking in anger. She turned from him, stumbling away. She stopped at the entrance to the tower and turned. He was staring at her, his head hanging and shoulders slumped. Maybe he knew, deep down, that she was right. Maybe he was regretting everything. She gripped the dagger. Maybe he wanted to kill her again. She shook her head, whispering, but it was so quiet he heard, his head lifting. “Winter has come for House Frey, that was what the murderer said.” She smiled. “It isn’t that she killed them that makes me so angry Jon. It is that you never knew that side of her and she told you that I was the one who was a murder.” She shook her head again and laughed. It was funny after all. “Your fucking family Jon Snow, you killed me for them and you would have died for them and…and it is a shame you never realized they just used you for what they wanted.” 

She looked at the ground and back to him again. Her hand flittered over her stomach; the gesture did not go unnoticed by him, the way his mouth fell open and he stumbled a bit, as though thinking things through again. “It is a shame you killed the only one who truly loved you for you no matter your choices and no matter who you trusted.” She paused. “And you killed her.”

When she turned, she heard him sob and heard the No Name dragon let out a similar cry of pain. She blinked through her angry tears and stormed up to her room, slamming the door and falling onto the bed in the center of her room, sobbing.

Only the tears weren’t angry but sad.

And she heard him outside of her door, doing the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to write, since it sets up stuff that happens later. Thanks for the reviews, I hope people are still keeping with this fic.
> 
> Next time: Jon struggles with what Dany told him about Arya; tensions rise between Dany and Jon leading to some reveals of their past; a dragon gets a name.


	8. Eddarion (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon struggles with the Arya revelation and fights Dany over it; a dragon gets a name.

Their swords were the only things they used with each other for the next few weeks. Everyone wisely kept their distance from them. He preferred to be in Vaes Dothrak than Valyria at the moment, since the new city was becoming less and less what he was used to the more Drogon fused the obsidian together to mold the spires and the buildings. 

He had cried outside of her door, wanting to just go in and comfort her. He understood her anger and her pain. He hated himself even more. How could I have been so stupid, he kept thinking, replaying every interaction he had ever had with his little sister in his head. From the moment he hugged her for the first time in years in the godswood to the last time he saw her on that dock, preparing to venture west.

The difference from when he saw her last, granting her Needle and hugging her, the little girl who had to jump up into his arms to the one who had just walked into them was startling. Then again, he had died since he last saw her. They had been through hell. She seemed to know more about what he had been through than her. 

Sansa and Arya were conspiring together; he had confronted a couple of the men, who said that they challenged Petyr Baelish and Arya slit his throat with the Valyrian steel catspaw dagger. The same one she used to destroy the Night King. Dany had toasted her at the feast and she had done nothing but try to get him to turn against his queen. 

_I will never know her. She’s not one of us._

I will never know my siblings. I am not one of them, he had thought, over and over in his head. Arya had kept the oath at the hearttree and Sansa had betrayed it in seconds. Their father died with that secret on his heart and the stain of a bastard on his honor. Sansa had her crown and the North, which he thought at the time was good. The Starks ruled as the Kings of Winter again. 

And Arya had stood there and told him she didn’t trust his queen, despite what he said. Arya had stood there and said she knew a killer and Dany would kill him. I came to kill a queen; yours got their first, she had said. Disdain. How could he not have seen it? 

Dany would never have killed me, she wanted to rule with me, she wanted me by her side. That was all she ever wanted and I killed her. I killed her for my sisters. My sisters who lied to me. Who ignored their own faults and pointed the same ones out in Dany. 

He had meant to talk to her about, but the following morning she had said nothing, still fuming at him. He could see the fire in his eyes. He was the target of that fire as she flung Dark Sister at him and dodged his blows. The more the Valyrian steel sparred, the angrier he also became. She was mad at him!? She was furious with him!? Arya may have murdered House Frey but Dany had murdered thousands of innocents!

They killed my brother, he thought. They killed her mother. Of course they deserved to die. 

They killed her father, her brother, her children, her best friend, and her sworn protector… Of course they deserved to die, but not the children. Not the innocents. She did not see the difference. And neither did Arya, killing all the Frey men. Maybe even the ones who had nothing to do with the murders. 

We are all in the wrong, we are all killers, he thought. 

In anger at his little sister, the one who loved him the most and who he loved the most…he was so furious he had punched his hand out into a fucking table. It was still a little swollen and he may have broken a couple fingers or something but he didn’t care. He was so angry. Angry at himself. Angry at Arya. Angry at the world. 

It hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. 

And it wasn’t his hand.

He drank over the fire, this time without Tormund there to tell him tos top. The Dothraki knew something had happened between them and as much as he could look like them with his leathers and his arakh and the braids in his hair, he was not one of them and they would defend their khaleesi to the death. Clearly he was at fault for her pain. 

That first night he just drank like a damn fool. Arya hadn’t told him. He thought of the little girl with the straggly braids who used to sneak him food during feasts, because he wasn’t allowed inside. The one who called him her brother when Sansa just referred to him as the “bastard.” It hurt. It hurt so bad. 

But what the fuck, he kept thinking, Daenerys thought she was the only one who was allowed to be angry about it? He did too. He deserved to be angry at her too, because she also didn’t have a right to stand there and shout at him too. Not after what she had done.

In his muddled thoughts, the edge of Dark Sister barely grazed his nose as he ducked backwards, avoiding it. He spun Longclaw around a few times in his hand before he lunged towards her. In the movement, she tossed the sword aside, glaring at him. “I want to learn hand to hand,” she demanded.

That was a dumb idea, but he didn’t care, because he was as angry as her. He tossed Longclaw on the ground. “You want to learn to fight?” he demanded. He shook his head, laughing. “No.”

“Yes,” she hissed. She threw her hand out, but he caught it, knocking it aside. She laughed and hit her knee up into his chest. He coughed and she laughed again, just in time for him to kick her ankles out under her, sending her to the ground. It didn’t take long before they were hitting each other, all furious fists and arms and legs. She was acrobatic where he was not, flipping out of his reach many times, but he was stronger than her and had her stumbling a few times, flailing to get her grip on the ground before she situated herself again. 

They were gaining an audience. Dothraki began to wander over to them in their training yard. He even heard a few of them wagering. He kicked her down to the ground again and when he leaned over, she spun around and sand went flying into his vision. “Fuck Dany!” he exclaimed, coughing and trying to blink away the grains of sand, the Dothraki laughing at his stupidity.

She laughed from her place on the ground, leaned back on her elbows. “We fight dirty here.”

You want to fight dirty? 

I’ll fight dirty.

He waited a second, trying to catch his breath and temper before he couldn’t help it. He let out a growl and fell down beside her, pinning her arms above her head and trapping her under him, his inner thigh pressing against her outer thigh, keeping her from kicking out. He leered over her, hair falling out of the braids he’d allowed the Dothraki to pull his hair into as they went from city to city. 

Beneath him she writhed a bit, but stilled, staring up with those large violet eyes. Her chest heaved with her breath and he acutely realized how her breasts strained against the leather vest she wore. Also of how their situation looked, with him pinned between her legs and her arms above her head. She licked her lips and the movement had him distracted. Just long enough for her let out a dragon-like scream and use the momentum of her body twisting to knock him off and over to the side, where she rolled, trapping him now beneath her. The dagger in her hand was right over his heart, the tip touching the scar on his chest, peeking out from under the torn linen shirt he wore.

Gods, he thought, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath. She leaned down, her face almost touching his. “Yield,” she breathed, her breath warm and husky. 

He took a few more shallow breaths, his voice raspy. “Never.” He wanted to yield and he should have, for she did have the upper hand. Except something inside of him refused to back down. He was angry and sad. 

After a second she flicked the dagger back into her belt and sat back, offering her hand pulling him to his feet with her. The Dothraki cheered and she shot them a look that had them dispersing quickly. He waited until it was just them before he leaned in, his hand gripping hers so tight he felt her gasp a little. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

A sly smile pulled at her lips. “Hello Aegon,” she murmured. “It is nice to see the dragon.”

He released her hand immediately and took a large step backwards. He pointed. “I am not Aegon, stop using that name.” He was Jon. Jon Snow. Not Aegon Targaryen. He turned and walked a few more steps before he spun around to face her and stomped towards her again. “You know you can be mad at me about my sisters, but you realize that I’m angry too? She didn’t tell me either!”

Dany squinted. “Fine.”

No! Not fine! 

“I loved my family!” he exclaimed. He laughed. “Maybe too much, but what the seven hells did I even have Dany? You have your dragons and they are your children because you had nothing either. I lived with people I thought were my siblings and my father and I could not even eat in the same hall as them! My father’s wife made it celar that I was never allowed to outshine her son. Her son who did not look like the North, not like me!” He had realized that when he was small and Cat had made him eat outside in the cold, away from Robb for days on end, forbidding him from training with him for weeks. He realized it was because he had knocked Robb down in sparring and Ser Rodrik had praised Jon for his skills and chided Robb. 

And the more her children were born and the more they resembled the Southern Tullys…until Arya, but not her sons. Not the ones who could inherit Winterfell. The son who could become legitimate with the snap of the king’s, her husband’s best friend, fingers the one who looked like the North and a wolf and prayed to the old gods of his father, not the seven gods of his mother like Robb. 

He saw the pain in her eyes at that statement. “I told you the North don’t trust outsiders. My father’s wife did not even trust a baby he brought from the South. Arya was the only one, not even Robb, who didn’t care. Cat told Robb what would happen if I became legitimate. I could take Winterfell from him. Robb laughed, but I know what he thought. Arya didn’t care. Arya looked like me. We were the wolves among fishes.”

And Ned said nothing. Did nothing as people spoke about it behind his back. Did nothing as his wife pushed him aside at every chance she got. All he had to do was say it. And Robert would have sent someone to slit my throat like he tried with Dany, when she was only five years old, she said. He closed his eyes, the anger suddenly wafting away with the wind.

He turned and picked up Longclaw, sheathing it at his side. She did the same with Dark Sister. They stood there. Dirty and tired and sweaty. The fight and anger seemed to go away again. As it did, like waves in the sea. “They treated you poorly and I cannot forgive that,” he whispered. He closed his eyes. “But you killed thousands and…”

“And I cannot forgive myself for that.” She looked over at him, nodding slightly. “I know your sister was protecting you, but…” She sighed and looked at the dragons watching them from atop the hill. “You killed me Jon. You killed me to protect them and here you are.” She sighed again. “In the Dothraki Sea, an exiled king with your undead queen.” She smirked. “And they get to live their lives. Arya didn’t tell you about her experience as a murderer but was happy to remind you that I was one too. You killed me to protect her, but maybe she should have told you the whole truth.”

He wasn’t sure what to say after that. He simply looked at the ground as she walked off to join the dragons. He waited another moment and followed her. She was petting No Name. Although he was thinking of something, he wanted to run it by her if she was okay with it. He looked sideways. Even filthy she was a queen. The sword and dagger and her braids and leathers. This was a woman who fought for what she wanted. She used fire and blood, but it got her nowhere. Sansa’s slippery words and little birds were what got her what she wanted. 

And Arya had kept things from him. Forgotten her own misdeeds as she pointed out those of others. Said nothing even after he had killed the woman he loved. Killed his child. He leaned against the dragon, who immediately began to move against him. “I told you about Cat,” he whispered. Briefly. A long time ago. “My father’s wife.”

“Yes, the fish.” She glanced sideways. “I hear her brother is quite stupid.”

From what he had heard Lord Edmure Tully was not the sharpest sword in the smith. “She hated me, like I said. I looked like my father. Too much like him while her children didn’t.” He paused. “I was a living, breathing reminder of her husband’s indiscretion. The blight on his honor.” And that was all he had. “And Arya was the only one I had. I didn’t even have my father. He kept his distance. Never got close. Robb was his son. I was the bastard. Ned didn’t even really love me, not really.”

I was the true king. I was the Targaryen. I was his promise to a dying sister. I was the reason for a war.

Dany leaned towards him; he stilled, unsure what she was going to do. To his surprise, she laid her hand over his, resting on the shoulder of the black and white dragon. Her eyes softened, losing the iciness of before. With her hair cut back from her face, she looked like his Dany again; the one who woke him up with light kisses on his nose and wanted to stay at a waterfall forever instead of returning to the real world. She shook her head, whispering. “Catelyn Stark was not your mother and she was never supposed to be.” She waited a moment. “And you think Ned Stark didn’t love you?” She laughed, her eyes crinkling. He frowned. “Jon, he died with your secret. If he didn’t love you he could have told Robert and just had you killed or sent you away. He could have sent you to another family or just dumped you on the street.”

I suppose so. He took that stain on his honor home with him even at the cost of a marriage. He closed his eyes. Sometimes he just wished Ned had treated him like Robb. Sometimes he wanted to just sit at the feast table with him as a real Stark. Only he was never a Stark. “I know,” he whispered. He shook his head. “I was treated better than most bastards, even the highborn.”

She hesitated. He silently questioning, wondering what held her back. “Rhaegar,” she murmured. She looked at him again. “I didn’t know him, but Rhaegar would have loved you. Your mother loved you. She wanted to protect you, it was her last wish, you said.” She looked down at their hands, joined atop the dragon. “I was wrong.”

He frowned. “Wrong?”

“When I asked you to never tell anyone about your birth…I should not have done that, I was just so scared. I knew what would happen, I had seen it before…I was scared,” she repeated. She looked at him again, earnest. “I should have at least just asked you to keep it until after…after everything.” She bit her lip. “I never understood why you had to tell them so bad. You may not have had a loving mother, but you had a father who let you learn at his trueborn son’s side. You had sisters and brothers who played with you and loved you….” She shook her head, reaching for No Name’s frill. “My brother abused me. He was loving sometimes, but vicious and angry at others. It got worse as we got older. When I was small he took care of me. I got sick once and he sat next to my bed. He didn’t eat so I could and he would forgo shelter so I could have it…” She blinked at tears. 

Where had that Viserys gone, he wondered.

Warped by madness for the throne. Mad because of his blood too. He was his father. She was her father. I was my father. All of us were mad, he thought. She took a deep breath. “It would have been nice to have had someone at the end who just loved me.”

He closed his eyes, feeling that pain in his heart again. I loved you, I swear it, he thought. He squeezed her hand tight. “I was groomed for the Wall, Dany. I was never supposed to be a king. Ned made sure of it. I never wanted a bastard child, never wanted them to go through what I did. There would be no more Targaryens after that.”

“You broke your vows for that wildling woman you told me about.”

He shook his head, whispering. Ygritte, he hadn’t thought of her in a long time. “I loved her. I think.”

“It was part of your lie. To gain their trust.” She looked at him with those hooded purple eyes of hers. “You see why I still worry.”

More than you can imagine. He remembered the pain in Ygritte’s face. The stoic wildling woman who was a better shot with a bow than he was. Could handle the cold better than him. Who was a better fighter than him. He hurt her. She died in his arms. “I never wanted to hurt another woman again after that and then I did it to you.” He chuckled. “She would say that I knew nothing.” He remembered her voice, somewhere in the back of his mind. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Dany smirked. “You don’t. She was right.”

Ygritte was right about everything in a way. He repeated his words from a moment before, seeing it lay out before him clear as day. Was that why Benjen went to the Wall? To be there to protect him too? “I was always meant for the Wall…even in the end. Just like Ned my honor brought me down.”

They were quiet for a long time. Just the dragons rumbling around them. She squeezed his hand. “You think your father’s honor brought him down but Rhaegar’s lack of it brought him down too.”

I would have really liked to meet him. Jon looked at the dragon, a silver eye fixed on him. The wondering and the expectancy. This was his dragon; he knew it. Rhaegal was always her child, despite the connection he had with the beast. This was different. He felt like their minds were one and the same. “It has been…damn near two years since I’ve been here,” he whispered. He looked at her and she said nothing. He smiled a little. “You never gave him a name.”

“He wasn’t mine to name.”

“Because he’s mine.” He said it possessively. The dragon lifted his wings and shifted a bit on his feet. 

Dany looked at the dragon, nodding absently. “Yes. He is yours.”

“I have a name for him.”

“Oh?”

He thought of her dragons and their names. Her brothers and her husband. Men she loved, regardless of their faults, but who rose above them instead. Viserion was not weak like Viserys. Rhaegal served valiantly for his mother and his rider before he died unlike Rhaegar. Drogon was strong and infallible, unlike Drogo.

The dragon looked at him, waiting. As did his mother, bright purple eyes focused on his. He smiled, whispering. “Eddarion.”

It almost was instant, the dragon screeching and throwing his wings out, rising as high as he could and showing his full might. The wings fell back to the ground, the claws on the tips clutching it as he threw his neck back and roared again, fire glowing in the back of his throat and silver eyes flashing in the sun. Drogon and Silverwing both jumped up and screeched as well. 

He laughed, his dragon leaning a head down and brushing against him. “I take it you like it.” What would Ned Stark think of a dragon named after him? He rubbed the dragon’s snout. “You think you’re ready?” 

The dragon stretched his wings out. He nodded and moved to the side, climbing up onto the dragon’s back. He wasn’t near the size as Drogon, but he was definitely big enough for a dragonrider. Jon glanced sideways at Dany, grinning. She grinned back and took off first. He looked at Eddarion, who was waiting. 

With a whispered “_Sōves_”, Jon took off to the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at Jon POV so I know this will not placate everyone, but oh well. 
> 
> Thanks for the reviews!
> 
> Next time: Dany and Jon head to the Shadowlands.


	9. Stormborn and Snow (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon talk on the ship heading to Asshai.

_Six and a Half Years After Death_

This was a fool’s errand.

The last time she was on a ship with him, she had fallen so head over heels in love it disgusted her now looking back at it. Yes, she had fallen in love with him much earlier than that, but it wasn’t until she actually gave herself to him completely did she realize she was a fool. Giving up her conquest of the Seven Kingdoms for his war against the dead.

I was an idiot, she thought, sitting in her berth, twisting the dagger around in her fingers. Her stomach was in knots. They had departed a few days before for Asshai. The easiest way into the Shadowlands, Quaithe told her. She could only go so far; while shadowbinders could move freely through the dark there, Quaithe would not accompany her. 

This is your test, not mine, the masked woman said.

It was after she had added Lorath and Norvos to her arsenal of cities did she realize it was time. Eddarion and Silverwing were growing fast and eventually she would need more. The Mother of Dragons needed more dragons. Valyria kept speaking to her, unearthing its mysteries as they returned it to prominence. She kept going into the dark caverns and ruins, trying to find something, but she found nothing. 

Jon found Silverwing’s egg by accident. Perhaps forcing herself to look was preventing her from finding them. In the end he just said that he sensed something, but didn’t know what. She found more of the “nurseries” but they were empty. Was Silverwing the last dragon egg in Valyria before the Doom? It seemed unlikely, but perhaps her egg was the only one protected enough to survive.

I thought my destiny was bringing the dragons back to take back my family’s seat, but that was a lie. In the end she did it with just one and she did not even have a chance to sit in the throne that Aegon created for the rest of the Targaryen line before she was betrayed. 

She shoved the dagger into the sheath at her side, climbing from the bed. There was a storm outside and the ship rocked from side to side. The dragons were flying above. Kinvara told her that sailing to Asshai was the best option for her, because flying would take a great toll on the dragons and there was nowhere for them to stop and rest on the way. Ghiscar and YiTi would not take well to the dragons and there were too many dangers in each place for her and them. 

So she agreed. They would fly overhead; there was a large quantity of meat for them on board the ship that she would throw it off for them to cook and eat. They loved to dive for fish in the water, coming up with mouthfuls wriggling in their mouth. They were so happy, she thought, watching them play during the daytime. Even Drogon. She wondered if he missed his brothers. Eddarion and Silverwing would play together in a way, but Drogon kept to himself. 

The ship took another tilt and she grabbed hold of the wall, steadying herself. She wondered if it was a sign for her to stop what the hell she was doing. She took a deep breath and continued, making her way to the room at the end, directly across the long tunnel-like corridor. She stopped in front of the door, staring at the Targaryen sigil on the door. Fuck, she thought. She shook her head. No, she didn’t want to do this. This was a mistake.

As she turned to return to her stateroom, the ship hit another hard wave and she gasped, falling back into the door, her shoulder slamming hard into the wood. Fuck! There was no time. The door flung open. 

He stood on the other side, studying her. He wore his simple Northern outfit still, after Kinvara told them Assahi would likely be far colder than Valyria and Vaes Dothrak. She stared at him, unsure what to say. He saved her the trouble, nodding for her to come in. She said nothing and walked into the room. It was the exact same as hers, except Longclaw lay on his bed with a polishing rag and the pillows were rumpled from where he had been sitting. 

She touched Dark Sister lightly. “Do you have anything to drink in here?” she asked.

He shut the door, after looking down the corridor a couple of times. He nodded to a table. “Just some of that Dothraki stuff Tormund has been drinking nonstop.”

“How come he didn’t want to come?”

“Said he had been as far as he was willing to go as wildling. To be honest I think he doesn’t want to leave the Dothraki woman he’s been sharing a tent with.” He smirked, taking the bottle of the Dothraki alcohol, handing it over to her. 

She took it, scowling at the taste after a sip. “I never could stand this stuff.”

He smiled. They stood across from each other, nervous. The last time they were on a ship…well it was still replaying in her mind as much as she wanted to burn it away. She reached around and removed her belt, wrapping it around Dark Sister and the dagger. He cleared his throat loudly. “What are you doing here Dany?”

Gods stop calling me that. “I don’t…” she wasn’t sure. She sighed. “Can I polish my sword with you?” He arched an eyebrow, smiling a little and she flushed like a virgin bride. Gods. She growled. “I don’t want to be alone. This is…unchartered territory.”

“For me too.”

Were they still talking about Asshai? She turned away from him and sat on the bed, while he took a chair across from her, propping his feet up on a desk built into the wall. They quietly worked on their swords. He treated Longclaw as though it were the most precious thing in the world, his hands lightly skimming over the steel with the rag and his eyes soft, the lines in the corners of his eyes finally relaxed. She licked her lips, remembering the feel of his hands on her skin…

Daenerys! 

She huffed a breath, shaking her head lightly. He looked over at her, frowning a bit. “You okay?”

“Fine…just…nervous.” 

He paused. “Why are you doing this? You do not have to go to the Shadowlands. You don’t know what you’re going to find.”

That was kind of the point. “I need to find more dragons.” It was her purpose. 

“You have three. You had three before and it was enough. One was enough.”

If I am to bring back Valyria, then I need to bring back all the dragons I can find. She felt it in her heart. Her undead heart. She shook her head, whispering. “You don’t understand. You have Ghost. I have Drogon, but…I need to see if there’s more there. The skies used to be filled with them.” She remembered when they first went to King’s Landing together. The first time she had seen what her family had built. And lost. “And we locked them up and turned them into nothing. They died out and we died too.” She sighed. “I died and I came back. For what purpose? Maybe this is my purpose. Rebuild Valyria…take away slavery…I thought that was what I was supposed to do before. Maybe it’s also to bring the dragons back with Valyria.” She thought of Eddarion, his egg hidden in Volantis for centuries. Silverwing, waiting in a cavern after the Doom. 

She looked at the rubies on the hilt of Dark Sister. “I need them.” They need me. She closed her eyes, trying not to let the tears rising up overtake her. “I lost all my children. All the ones I carried and the two I birthed from the fire. I was meant to be a mother and all that has happened to them has been death.” She saw his head drop, knowing he was thinking of their daughter. She shook her head, whispering. “These are the only children I will ever have. The least I can do is try to find the ones still waiting for a mother.” All I want is a home. “The dragons are my home.”

He waited a moment. She watched the candlelight flicker over the hollows under his cheekbones and eyes. He was tired. He looked so tired. What must it be like to carry that much grief and pain, she wondered. She smiled a bit. She knew the pain she carried since she was reborn, but…Jon seemed like he had been carrying his since the moment he was born. He needed peace as much as her. “Why are you here?” she whispered.

“What?”

“Why are you still here Jon? Go home. Go back to the North where you belong. Find a free folk wife and have children. You already deserted, so the vows don’t matter,” she said. She shook her head, her hands tight on Dark Sister. “If they ever find out you are with me, you are dead.”

“I’m dead anyway for deserting.”

“More than dead then, Jon. They’ll kill Eddarion, Ghost…anything you hold dear.” That was what those people did. They found what you loved the most and they destroyed it. It was all they knew. Tyrion was a Lannister and a lion sat with their kill and slowly pulled at it until there was nothing left. She shook her head again. “They’ll kill me. They’ll stop everything I am trying to do.”

He said nothing. Not for a long time, simply running a whetstone over Longclaw’s edges. The rasping sound of the sharp steel against the stone in his hand was somewhat comforting. She turned her attention back to Dark Sister, carefully polishing the rubies glowing on the hilt, shaped like fire. “I will never tell them where you are,” he said, breaking the silence between them. He looked up, his arms draped over Longclaw, resting on his knees. His grey eyes smoldered, like hot coal, in the flickering light. “I will die for you Dany. I told you that and I stand by it.”

Like you did before, she wanted to say, but kept quiet. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll still find me. They want me dead. They made up their minds about me before I even could do anything to show them otherwise…it doesn’t matter.” That was why she needed the dragons. More than Drogon. Enough for them to leave her alone. Let her live the rest of her life here in Essos. The only place that accepted her. She glanced sideways again. “You need to leave.”

“I will only go North to ensure that no one comes looking for us, but I am not leaving you.” He was firm. She liked it. She hated herself for liking it. He kept working on Longclaw. “When I was a child, Old Nan, one of the Winterfell…elders I suppose…she would tell us stories about dragons.” He smiled at her. “None of them come close to the truth.”

Dragons were only legend for so long. Jon continued. “Tell me about them.”

“Tell you what? You just said you already heard stories about them.” The same ones she likely heard. Just with Targaryens as monsters on their dragons instead of heroes. 

“I know but I want to hear them from a Targaryen.”

You are one too. Dany finished with Dark Sister, placing the sword back into the sheath. She set it aside and crossed her hands in her lap. She told him. The ship rocked back and forth, long into the night, the candles flickering and hissing every so often as the wicks burned out in the wax. Told him about Balerion the Black Dread and Vhagar and Meraxes. The death of Meraxes by a lucky shot the eye, much like how her dragons were taken down at the weaken points of their steel bodies. Told him about Vermithor and the original Silverwing. Good Queen Alysanne and King Jaeherys the Wise. Stories of how Targaryens would put a dragon egg in the cradles of their children, binding dragon to rider before birth. 

At some point she was lying on her stomach, her hand propping up her head. She dragged her finger around in the quilt on the bed, tracing the thread as she spoke. He said nothing while she relayed the stories of her—their—ancestry. 

The storm had gotten worse at one point. She smiled, halfway through telling him about golden Vermithor and Jaeherys when she realized he had stopped with Longclaw and was just listening to her. “My turn,” she said.

“Your turn for what?”

“To ask you for stories.” 

“I don’t have stories,” he teased.

She smirked. “You just said Old Nan told you stories. There had to be stories about wargs and wolves and whitewalkers.” 

His eyes darkened a bit, but he didn’t say anything about that comment. He shrugged, his hands in his lap as well. “Yeah, she told us about them, but you know about them. The Long Knight and all that. She would tell us about Targaryens mostly. I think she liked the dragons.”

“So you grew up listening about Aegon the Conqueror…” Dany lifted her eyes to meet his. His shoulders pulled back. “And you were an Aegon too.”

He scowled. “I suppose so.” He blew out a hard breath, frowning. “I suppose the good thing about all of that was my father was by all accounts destroyed when he found out what Robert had allowed to happen to my…” he trailed, his voice faraway. “Brother and sister.”

Ned Stark would never have allowed innocent children to die. He knew what had happened in the Sack of King’s Landing to the children of Rhaegar and Elia. What had happened to Elia. No wonder he would rather live with people thinking he had a bastard if the alternative was seeing his baby nephew’s head caved in by his best friend’s warhammer. She smiled briefly. “My brother was a fool.”

“Viserys?”

“No, Rhaegar.” For so many reasons. “He named both his sons Aegon, which makes no sense, but he just…he threw it all away for love. It just ended with a war, millions dead including him and his family…” She wondered what would have happened if Rhaegar had never met Lyanna Stark. Would she be the Queen? She glanced at Jon. He wouldn’t exist.

And what kind of a world would that be like? She felt her stomach flip. She wouldn’t have died. Maybe she wouldn’t have her dragons. She frowned a bit…it didn’t seem like a good world, as hard as that was to admit. She looked over at Jon. He smiled briefly. “Maybe my mother was the one who named me. I was her son after all.”

“Aegon is a good name in the Targaryen line.” Not like Aerys. 

“When I was little I wanted to be a lord,” he whispered. He frowned, suddenly appearing embarrassed. He glanced at her. She was grinning. “I never told you that, did I?”

“You only told of how awful it was to be a bastard of a highborn.” She sat up, leaning against the wall, the ship still rocking violently. “But what was Little Jon like?”

“Brooding. Just smaller,” he joked. 

She laughed. “Did Jon Snow just make a joke?”

“I may have.” I missed this Jon, she thought, still smiling at him. She hated herself for giving into this. She should just get up and leave. This is the man that killed you, a voice told her. This is the man you fell in love with, another whispered. He leaned back in the chair, tilting it onto two legs as he seemed to think. “Before I knew what I really was…what it really meant…I wanted to be Lord of Winterfell. Wanted to be a king, even.” He dropped his voice, pulling at his fingers. “And then Sansa heard me say I wanted to be Lord of Winterfell and told me that would never happen. Because I was a bastard.”

Fucking bitch, Dany thought. She shook her head. “Your sister has a habit it seems of denying you what you want and only getting what she wants.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t going to happen any way.”

“But you were a king.” King in the North. King of the Free Folk. King of the Seven Kingdoms…all of it. She knew they were getting into dangerous territory. She didn’t want this to end in a fight. She finally felt a sense of calm for the first time in awhile. “What about the Northern customs?”

Jon blinked. “Customs?”

“The gods and stuff.” She remembered when they arrived in Winterfell, after the icy reception she received, she had gone to make sure the Dothraki and the Unsullied had appropriate accommodations and he had disappeared to the godswood. She had found him at Dragonstone a few times, sitting in some of the more secluded areas of trees, as though he were praying. 

“Well it’s just the Old Gods,” he explained. He shrugged. “I don’t know…there are so many rules with the Faith of the Seven. Your family’s gods.”

She held up her finger, wagging it slightly at him. “No. Targaryens bow to neither gods nor men. Like our dragons.” She sat up. “The Faith of the Seven was already in the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon and his sister-wives allowed it to continue because freedom of religion ensured they had everyone’s support. Forcing someone to renounce their gods is just asking for a rebellion.”

He chuckled. “Fine then. Didn’t realize you were so touchy.”

“I told you a long time ago that I only have faith in myself.” By all accounts the Targaryen line either did not believe in a god or gods at all or they prayed to the Seven, simply because it was the dominant faith of their people. 

“Very well.” He smiled again, whispering. “The Old Gods are just…I can’t explain it. They’re always around. In nature, in the air, the trees...the water…” He seemed to disappear somewhere. After a long moment, he smiled again, looking at nothing in particular. Dany thought he looked so much younger in that moment. “The godswood of Winterfell is beautiful and it was my favorite place there. It was the only place where I could just be…me.”

It sounded nice, she thought. Peaceful. She cleared her throat. “Does Tormund believe in the Old Gods?” She couldn’t believe the giant redhead who drank from a horn would pray to anything. 

“Yes. All the Free Folk follow the Old Gods. Most of the North does. The Manderlys don’t, they pray to the Seven. It’s entirely their decision.” 

Dany wondered about Tormund. “How long can he go without the North, you think?”

“Not long, he will likely leave soon.” 

She nodded. “You know Jon you have been with me now for almost two and a half years.” 

“I wasn’t supposed to be in Essos for but a few months.”

“Why were you even here?” 

Jon nodded towards the sword beside her. “I told you. I was going to bring Dark Sister to Old Valyria. To bury it with you.” He paused. He looked at his hands again, whispering. “I wanted to find your body. I thought Drogon may have brought it there.” He sighed. “I told you I wanted to die after I did what I did. I had nothing to live for and part of me was hoping I could find your body and…and I could die too.”

“I wonder why he didn’t kill you.” Maybe Drogon knew. Knew she would come back. Knew Jon would find her. Sometimes her oldest son astounded her with his understanding of the world around him. No one would ever know the true mysteries of the dragons. She pulled at the quilt. “Sometimes I wonder how he knew to bring me to Kinvara. To the Red Temple.” She remembered waking on that stone slab, surrounded by priests and priestesses. Fire everywhere. Pain everywhere. “When I woke up I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t even remember my name. I started to realize what happened…the pain and the…betrayal.” Screaming at the top of her lungs, realizing what her lover had done to her. Realizing what she had done to everyone else. “I wonder how Drogon knew.”

“Dragons are smart. Yours in particular.” He laughed. “I remember him looking at me once…just staring at me like he knew not to trust me.” He closed his eyes. “He knew more than I did what I would be capable of doing. Should have burned me then.”

There was a loud clap of thunder, enough to shake the ship and send vibrations through the flooring. Rain continued to pour on them and the ship rocked again and again. Storms were in her blood as much as fire, she thought. “You know I was born in a storm. It’s why they call me Stormborn. The worst storm in centuries.” Sh sighed. “Funny. I was born in cold and rain and wind. Like the North.”

He smiled in her direction. “I was born in the South. Sand, hot and dry. They still call me Snow.”

“Funny how life ends us up where it does.”

“Yeah, funny.” 

After a long time, she made a move to get up, to return to her stateroom, but he stilled her. “I’ll go,” he said. “You’re comfortable there.”

“Or you could stay. It is your room.”

What possessed her in that moment, she didn’t know. The warm memories and the enjoyment of each other’s company, reminding her of times long ago. She lay back in the pillows and he threw the quilt over her, taking their swords and setting them on the desk carefully. He pulled off her boots and she curled her toes into the end of the bed, stiffening slightly as he lay beside her, atop the blanket rather than under like her. 

They lay quiet for a long time, the wind howling outside and the ship rocking in the wind. She eventually fell asleep, turning into him at some point in the night, and when she woke, she just stayed there and didn’t move. Neither did he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going through some personal stuff and likely will be slow on updates as I work on the fic. The next few chapters will be hard to write I think, since they'll be more "mythology" heavy.
> 
> Next time: Jon bids Dany farewell on her journey into the Shadow; Asshai reveals its secrets to Jon.


	10. Asshai (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon worries for Dany before she leaves for the Shadow.

Asshai gave him a feeling as though he was constantly being watched. The ship docked in the port and as they emerged onto the deck to watch, Jon was struck at just how dark it truly was there. Also how large the city was. They said Oldtown, King’s Landing, and plenty other cities could fit within its walls, but it had a population of barely 50,000. 

It was dark, the sun hardly emerging from behind storm gray clouds. All the buildings were made of a smooth black stone that seemed to absorb all light. Nothing reflected off it. The dragons flew overhead, both seemingly put off by their new environment and also blending in well with it. None of the Asshai residents were bothered, many did not even look up as the dragons screamed, their sounds muffled by the odd stone.

And everyone wore masks.

Jon wondered why Quaithe wore her mask all the time and now he sensed it was just what they did here. “Are all of them shadowbinders?” he murmured to Dany, as they made their way to the building where they would stay. Dany had not said much to him after they got off the ship, going to check on the dragons first and foremost. 

They had spent almost three months on the ship. The dragons disappeared from time to time, finding land no doubt to hunt, growing sick of the same goat meal every day. They sparred, made more difficult with the rocking of the ship. She was incredible with Dark Sister, a natural swordswoman. He wondered if there was anything she could not do if she put her mind to it. She taught him Valyrian, laughing constantly at how the words sounded in his Northern accent.

He also taught her about the gods. The old gods, the warging, telling her stories that Old Nan told him. She explained about the Fourteen Flames, the volcanoes that built Valyria. The gods that Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys looked to for inspiration in naming their dragons. He liked hearing the stories she told about Meleys, the goddess of love. Tessarion, the goddess of music and Aegarax, the creator of the first dragon. 

Aegarax. Aegon.

They had been at their residence in Asshai for a few weeks when she came to him. He had books that Kinvara had provided him, suggesting he read them. Books found deep in the libraries of Asshai. “Books about your gods,” she said, with a mysterious smile. “You may find them interesting.”

He looked up as she entered, lightly knocking before she pushed into his rooms. He closed the book, setting it aside. “How is Drogon?” He had yet to see Eddarion that day. The black and white had taken off almost the moment they arrived in Asshai, occasionally flying overhead. Jon did not feel any distress in their connection, so he just hoped Eddarion was enjoying his new environment. 

She sat in a chair in front of the fire. Even the firelight was dull here. So was she, he noticed, shadows beneath her eyes and her normally shiny silver hair dull and listless at her shoulders. She rubbed her hands together. It was cold here. Colder than anywhere he had been in Essos. He loved it. Dany on the other hand was losing her strength, he thought, going to sit across from her. “He’s alright,” she said, her voice somewhat weak. She looked over at him and he saw she was shaking. 

“Gods you’re freezing,” he whispered, taking her hands between his. He rubbed them between his and blew on them. He reached around and whipped one of the furs he brought with him from the North around, enveloping it around her shoulders. The black crow’s fur cloak swarmed her. She looked like a child.

Her voice was tiny. “I wanted to tell you that I leave today. I have to do this alone.” The fire that was gone from her body still resided in her eyes. They flashed when he furrowed his brow, not sure about her voice. “You will stay here.”

He understood, but he did not like it. “You need to be safe Dany…we have no idea what is out there. The stories are just stories, but they have to be rooted in something truthful. You cannot eat or drink anything…ghost grass…” The Dothraki told him before they left. They would not go. She left Rono in charge of the khalasar in her absence. When he asked Rono why he would not be coming, the Dothraki lord explained about the ghost grass.

“The horses cannot eat it. It will swallow the sea,” he had explained, referring to the Dothraki Sea. “And we will die with it. The world will be over.”

“I have to go, this place is my purpose.” She frowned a bit. “This place is for the unwanted. I will want them.” 

He flinched, but she didn’t notice it, staring into the fire. He didn’t understand. At least take me with you, he thought. “People die in the Shadow. There are winged men and bloodless men…cannibals even.”

“They are my people too.” She lifted her gaze. It was clear-eyed. Her voice took on that hollow almost child-like tone, sending shivers down his spine. He’d heard it before and it sent him flying back in his memories to another dark and ashy place, where the sun wasn’t shining and she was speaking of her people. The only ones who mattered. “They are my people. All the unwanted and magical and strange people. They are mine as I am theirs. I will lead them as I do all the ones that look like you and me. Valyria is a place for all.”

Please Dany, he silently begged, his throat dry as sand. He closed his eyes, pushing that memory from his mind. Seeing her standing there and talking of conquering. Taking over and destroying. Liberating, she said. He shook his head and whispered. “And what if they do not want you to lead them? What if they do not want you here?” 

She continued to stare at him. “What is that supposed to mean?” she murmured.

He clenched his eyes shut. Gods. He moved from his chair and fell to his knees before her. Took her hands into his. Please, he thought, staring up at her. She simply looked back at him, with those haunting violet eyes of hers. He swallowed hard. “I do not want you to…to go down that path again. The path that led you…away.” He wasn’t sure what to call it. The darkness that took her from so many losses. Sent her into a spinning world where only she could save them all. To the point where they were all her enemies. She was so different now. He couldn’t accept it if she grew to believe she was a god again, the only person to make the decisions for them all. 

She frowned. “What are you saying Jon?” she demanded.

“Dany please…you have to hear how you sound. I do not want you to think that this…this is something that when you go through it and come out the other side…” He was doing a fuck job of this, he thought. He squeezed her hands tight. “I fear what will happen if you think that you once again are the only one who can make choices for the world.”

There, he said it. She waited a moment and pulled her hands from his. She tugged off the fur, throwing it at him. Fuck. He followed her with his gaze as she walked to the window and hugged her arms around herself. She stared out it for a moment and then spoke. Her voice hard and cold. “This is why you are here, is it not? To keep me from going crazy or something?” She spun around, glaring at him. “Well too bad Jon Snow. I will kill you if you try again and you know it.”

“I know Dany…that’s why I haven’t left.” 

He left her with that thought, seeing the surprise in her eyes and got up, taking his cloak and tugging it around him to ward off the chill. He wandered down the street, the only one without a mask. He barely saw anyone, just once in awhile a masked individual who ducked quickly away from him. He emerged from the building where they were staying and walked down towards the open area where a stone fountain stood. No water came from it. 

A dragon screeched and he felt Eddarion near. He stopped and waited. The dragon came down, landing on the stone fountain. The stone was so strong it did not even crack with the weight of the full-grown beast. Eddarion screeched again and lowered his head. Jon felt like he was anxious, his heart beating quickly. He placed his cold fingers on the dragon’s snout, lowering his head to it. Shh, he thought, beginning to feel his heart rate slow as Eddarion’s eyes fluttered closed and the dragon’s breath began to steady.

He didn’t like it here, not as much as the other two. Maybe because of me, Jon thought, moving closer to the dragon, almost holding his great head in his arms. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

“You are good with a dragon, for a wolf.” Kinvara approached. She also had a red lacquered mask on over her face. She had placed in on after the ship arrived. She walked towards him, her red robes and cloak making no noise as they swished about her feet. 

Eddarion was more wolf than he was dragon, Jon thought, thinking of Ghost left behind in the North. He hadn’t seen his familiar in years now. He missed him. Eddarion filled a bit of the hole in his heart from not seeing his wolf, but he still needed him. One day I’ll get him, I’ll have to return. Eddarion would like to see the North. He glanced at Kinvara. “Why are there no children here?” he asked.

“No child can be born here. No food will grow. No water will fall.” How could this city have survived, he wondered, looking at all the strange gray and black buildings. He glanced at her again. “It is for the unwanted,” Kinvara said. 

Unwanted? He thought of Dany, how she said she would take the people and want them. He looked over at her. “Dany is wanted,” he whispered. This wasn’t a place for her. 

“By who Jon Snow?”

“By me!” he exclaimed. He was furious with the doublespeak of both Kinvara and Quaithe. The insistence that they were the ones who knew it all. Just fucking tell us, he wanted to scream. He was tired of having to figure it out. Their words had forced Dany here. To where she might even die. All for whatever strange quest the two shadowbinders were sending her on. 

Kinvara may have smiled, but he couldn’t see behind her mask. “You need to prove it then Jon Snow.”

“Why do you think I am even here?” he demanded.

“She is learning to trust. Would the woman almost three years ago be with you?”

No, he thought. The woman who had walked out of that tent and shown him what he’d truly done to her, she never would have let him get as close as he was. Never would have allowed him one of her dragons. He shook his head, whispering. “No.”

“Daenerys Stormborn is about to embark on a dangerous path. She will see things and she will experience things that no one in this world will be able to understand,” Kinvara warned. “She will pass through the shadow to the lands of death and she will need an anchor to the living.” She pressed her hand against the scar on his chest. It sent a bolt of fire through him and had him gasping in pain. “You are the anchor. You are both magic.”

Magic? “I am not magic,” he whispered. He was lying. He was reborn from the dead. He could see through the eyes of Ghost in his dreams. He could fly on a dragon.

“You are Jon Snow. You are the blood of the First Men and the blood of Old Valyria. The beginnings of the known world run through your veins.” 

Eddarion let out a sound behind him. He turned to the dragon, comforting him. He looked over his shoulder to Kinvara, but she was gone. He sighed. He looked at Eddarion, who nuzzled him and then took off, flying to the sky to join Silverwing. Drogon swooped over and down, landing with almost no sound in the matte black city. 

He turned and watched her approach. Her silver hair was shorn to a cropped cap on her head. She wore brown leather breeches and a thin black armored breastplate with the Targaryen sigil stamped in the center. Black leather doublet, a red scarf around her neck, and a thick black cloak rounded her ensemble. Easy to move in. As warm as she could handle and still fly. Dark Sister was tucked close and the dagger he’d put in her breast was in its usual place on her other hip. She lifted the cloak over her head and pulled it tight around her. 

I am sorry for what I said, he thought, moving towards her. He reached for her, taking her shoulders and dropping his head a little so he could speak close to her. He waited a moment and reached up to the tie of his cloak around his neck. He tugged and removed the silver wolf clasp. He reached and her eyes followed his hand as he attached it to her cloak, pulling it snug. 

A tiny smile pulled on her lips. She nodded, recognizing the gesture for what it was. An apology. A promise. I will always be with you, he thought, but he couldn’t form the words. He looked up and over to the direction of the Shadow, the sky black with occasional bolts of lightning. Gods I hope you know what you are doing, he silently prayed. 

She pulled from his hands and moved to Drogon. He glanced at her. She stopped just short of climbing onto the dragon and turned. She opened her mouth to say something, but he silenced her. 

Jon didn’t think. For once in his fucking life he didn’t think. It was magnificent. 

He grabbed her by the elbow, jerking her against his chest with a hard clang as their armor hit. He crashed his lips onto hers, expecting the dagger on her hip to find its way into his heart, but instead he felt her small hands grip the front of his doublet, holding him as she eagerly returned the kiss, her lips parting and a small gasp escaping her. It was a battle of teeth and tongues, both of them trying to put what they couldn’t say into the kiss. He finally broke the kiss a few moments later, his forehead pressed to hers and their noses brushing. 

They took a few deep breaths and he kissed her again, softer this time. A promise. She touched her fingers to his face, stroking his beard lightly. He felt tears from her on his face. He waited another moment and gave her one more kiss before he pulled his face away from hers to gauge her reaction.

Violet eyes fluttered open, the rings around them black. He leaned to her again, whispering. “Come back to me.” He touched his fingers to her cheek, rough against the smooth skin. She lightly nodded. “Come back to me Dany. You’re mine, you’ve always been mine.” He nodded. “As I have always been yours.”

The tears at the corners of her eyes dripped out and she nodded, but said nothing. She pulled away and walked to Drogon. She paused and smiled again, but continued to say nothing. She climbed atop the great beast and he watched, waiting for something, anything.

Dany looked to the Shadow and then dropped her eyes to his. “Do not leave without me Jon Snow.” 

Never, he thought, tilting his head back as Drogon took off with a roar and beat his wings hard, sending them propelling forward into the clouds. He continued to watch as she disappeared into a tiny speck and then into nothing, the Shadow consuming her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews, i hope people are enjoying this fic still. :) 
> 
> Next time: Dany encounters the occupants of the Shadow, seeing her past and glimpses of her future.


	11. The Shadow (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany battles the creatures of the Shadow, both on land and inside herself.

Everything was cold.

Dry.

Dark.

Drogon flew her into the Shadowlands, but she could feel his discomfort and reluctance. This was where you are from, my son, she thought, clutching him as tight as she could, reassuring herself this was real and she was not dead. Her wound in her side burned like the dagger was going in over and over again and she clenched her eyes shut at the pain.

There were tingles in her fingers and toes and she felt the peculiar feeling she usually felt when she was in fire. When others screamed in pain as they burned, she merely felt the strange tingling on her skin. Like light caressing of a lover’s fingers on her body. She felt it again only this time in her lips. The more she thought of that kiss, the stronger the feeling. 

It had been days of flying into the Shadow and everything looked the same. She touched Drogon down here and there, trying to gather her bearings. She flew over the River Ash in day and night, the green eerie glow sending Drogon into screeches of terror. What could scare a dragon, she feared, trying to move away from it. She was lost in the Shadow, unsure where she should be even going. 

She wasn’t even sure what she was supposed to be looking for. 

Herself? Dragon eggs? The people of the Shadow?

The kiss was so earnest and hopeful, but sad and full of longing. She wasn’t sure what she planned to say to him after he basically told her he wanted her to kill him if he tried to stop her from doing something akin to what she had done in King’s Landing. He thought it his duty and honor, but knew he would die this time. She was reminded of what he had said after arriving in Vaes Dothrak. 

How he wanted to die, he wanted Drogon to burn him and hated itw hen the Dragon simply flew away. Angry at his siblings for stopping his execution. If he died at the Wall, so be it, he wouldn’t stop the universe from taking him back. 

It was contrary to the kiss he had given her, almost promising her of what would come after. She didn’t push him away. He had been at her side for years now. She had been reborn what, closing in on seven years? He had been with her for four years. Four years and finally he kissed her. What if she had stabbed him? She hated her body for curving against him, feeling the hard muscle and strength hiding beneath his armor and cloak. She wanted to kill him, because the last time he did this he had killed her. 

Only she felt that joy within her whenever he kissed her. The love and feeling of coming home. My home. My dragon. My wolf. My Jon.

Come back to me, he said. You’re mine. 

I am yours, she thought. You are mine too. 

Drogon released a painful screech and to her horror he began to descend. “No!” she shouted, forgetting Valyrian for a moment as they plummeted to the ground. She screamed, tumbling off him as he landed hard, still screeching and writhing as though he were in pain. She sobbed, reaching for him and feeling his scales burn. Strange marks began to appear on his skin and she howled for him, trying to stop whatever it was, her hands moving on the scales as she made her way to his face.

His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavy, smoke furling out and fire building in his throat, but he couldn’t get the flames out, they coughed into smoke and he screamed again, not listening as she begged him to stay before he took off, his wing almost bent as he ascended to the sky, leaving her behind.

The pack that she had attached to him was gone, and all she had was the sling around her body that contained some bladders of water and a few wrapped packages of salted meat and stale bread. She sobbed, covering her face with her hands, shaking in cold. This place took her energy while it seemed to give Jon something else. Was it the cold and lack of sunlight that encouraged him and sapped her? 

I need the warmth, she thought, looking at the ashy ground. She fell to her knees, digging her fingers into it and watching the dirt crumble into the light wind. Her cloak fell back over her head and she looked around. She had no idea where she was. The River Ash was not too far, she had seen it as they flew overhead a few hours before. She must follow it, she thought. 

Dark Sister burned on her hip. It was her only protection now that Drogon had abandoned her. What had possessed him and hurt him so? She began to walk, stumbling as she made her way towards the direction of the river. Ghost grass fluttered around her, wispy and supernatural. The Dothraki believed it would take over their sea. It would destroy all the crops and the horses would die. She knew the fish in the river would likely kill her, only the shadowbinders would dare to eat it.

She continued to stumble, the only thing in her mind the focus of finding something, anything that could aide her in her quest. 

And hearing Jon’s voice, again and again. 

_Come back to me, Dany._

_Come back to me, Dany._

_Come back to me, Dany._

\--

The mountains in the North were the greatest she had seen. Snow-capped and pristine, almost touching the sky. The Mother of Mountains equally imperious, sand and dust-covered. Nothing compared to the gray ones that surrounded Asshai, greater than even Drogon. They blocked the sunlight, the peaks hidden in the gray stormclouds, and she could not see where they ended on the ground. 

The Valley of Shadows, they called it, she thought, falling to her knees beside the river. The water looked so inviting, she thought. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. The water she had on her had run out a long time ago, as if it simply evaporated. 

She lay in the dirt, her eyes fluttering open and shut into a strange sleep. Since her rebirth she never slept. Jon never slept either, she thought, remembering how he would lie awake beside her. She would fall asleep after they made love or fucked, since they did both and quite often. He would be awake when she fell asleep and awake when she woke up. Now she understood why. We aren’t really alive, she thought, we are almost shadows ourselves.

One morning she thought she would die again, her stomach eating itself in hunger. She looked to the sky, whispering, to nothing in particular. “Save me,” she murmured. Save me…

Save yourself.

She gasped, forcing herself up to her feet. Her clothes were in tatters and she felt like Dark Sister was pulling her back to the ground. She clutched the hilt, holding it for support. Faith in no gods, only faith in myself, she had said to Jon when she met him. She only had faith in herself to get this done.

As she made her way through the Valley, she thought of what she had done. The ash burned her nose. Only this time it smelled of burned flesh, like when she destroyed the khals. She stopped, staring at something on the ground. It was a person. “No,” she gasped, rushing towards it, as it looked like a child.

She turned the body and screamed in horror. It was a child. Burned and deformed. The eyes flicked open and spoke. “You did this,” the child whispered. 

“I didn’t,” she sobbed. She backed away, spinning to see more. They were walking to her though. Burned, horrible figures, like shadows, approaching her. She grabbed Dark Sister and flung at them, forgetting her training as she fought for her life. 

They tried to grab at her, but she screamed and drew all the strength she had, destroyed the corpses. She turned, suddenly at the gate of a black city, with more of them looking over and down at her. 

Stygai.

The Heart of the Shadow, some of the books said, but they didn’t say much. She thought of what Jon had said about the wights and the White Walkers coming from the Heart of Winter. Where they were born. Was this where all the demons came from? Her dragons? 

Dragons, she thought, pushing into the city. It was black, everything disappearing and reappearing. “Drogon!” she screamed. She thought she heard him. More cries. She turned and screamed as a dragon, white and blue, all bones and torn flesh, swooped down to her. 

Viserion, she sobbed, reaching for him, but he diseapepared. She turned and this time it was Rhaegal, standing before her, with arrows in his neck and legs, blood pouring onto the stone. “I am so sorry,” she sobbed, reaching for him. “It was my fault!” My bloodlust for the throne. You’re all gone because of me, she cried, and Rhaegal cried before disappearing too.

What was this place, she wondered, tripping her away down the streets, no one there but shifting shadows and smoke. She turned a corner and swung out with Dark Sister, the Valyrian sword carving through the corpse as though it were ice and her blade fire.

It was fire, she thought, staring at the shining silver, the only thing that stood out in the black shadow city. I am fire. I am Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name, of the Blood of Old Valyria. The Unburnt. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Breaker of Chains. 

Mother of Dragons. 

And I will find them, she thought, letting out a scream, coming from deep inside her as she spun with her sword, slicing through the corpses as they reached for her, trying to take her. 

You cannot have me, she vowed. No one can have me. I am Daenerys Targaryen and I will survive this. 

To find yourself you must pass through the Shadow, that was what they said. She was now. To find what though? She thought she knew herself. She thought she was supposed to be a Queen. To take back what her family lost and now she was nothing. A Queen of a few cities. A mother of a couple dragons. She was undead as well as unburnt. 

I am meant to be a mother and to have a family, but I do not even have that. I cannot even have that. 

She stopped and saw someone approach. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. A crown of flames on his head, stringy gray hair and a slashed neck and a knife in his gut. He screamed at her. “I am the dragon!” He tore at his hair, laughing maniacally. “Aerys II Targaryen! I am the dragon! Burn them all!”

My father wanted to burn them all.

He didn’t get a chance.

She howled, reaching out with the sword and slashing at her father. The image disappeared and suddenly she was alone, panting and sweating, and the wind whipping at her hair. It sent her into a sudden chill. 

I am not my father.

I was my father.

I will never be my father. Never again. 

She looked up as she somehow came out the other side of the city, beyond another gate of bones. Drogon came swooping down, screaming as he turned to look back at her. She ran for him, throwing herself atop him as he took off. Her hands clutched at his spines, the rough edges cutting into her palms. Blood streaked over her wrists and onto his scales, turning them shining red.

Her eyes rolled back into her head and she passed out as they flew over the Grey Waste.

\--

Dany woke with a start, staring down at Drogon’s scales. She cried out, grabbing for him, but realized they were on the ground. The dirt was different now. Rocky and colder than the strange disappearing ash from before. She was pressed against his haunch, the only thing keeping her warm. 

He turned his head, enveloping her around him. A rumble in his throat brought some fire up and she pushed into it, feeling like she was returning to life. A different sort of life. She stared ahead. There was a wooden table, someone lying on it. She frowned and stood, walking slowly towards it. 

She made her way to the table and cried out, covering her mouth with her hand when she saw who it was. 

Jon Snow.

He was dead, with seven stab wounds carving over his gray skin. They were the ones she had used to stroke in passion, wondering how such a person could survive from them. He never told her about it. Being killed. She reached her hand out to touch the one over his heart, and screamed as his hand jerked up and grabbed her wrist. 

His eyes opened but they were bright blue, like the ones in the eyes of the demons she had killed with dragonfire and dragonglass. The ones who killed Jorah. The eyes of the demons she wished had just taken over the North, so she could have her crown. He stared at her, the eyes flaming blue and his grip threatening to tear off her arm. “They killed me. I killed you.”

“I know,” she cried, wrenching at her hand. She shook her head, tears sterakign down her dirty face. “They killed you and you killed them.” She screamed at the wight version of Jon Snow. “And you killed me!”

“Kill me,” he whispered. 

She shook her head. “No!”

“Why?” 

“Because!” she screamed. She sobbed. “I love you, you fucking bastard!”

And then she was alone.

Drogon came over, staring at where the table with the body of Jon had sat. She gasped, her hand pressed to her heart. The wound in her side was bleeding. She pulled it up, watching as the blood tracked down. It was black. Smoking. She looked up at Drogon and whispered. “I think I’m dying. Again.”

She pulled her tattered cloak back around her, stumbling away from the clearing and returning to the ghost grass. Drogon led her, called by something. Where are you taking me, she thought, her eyes fluttering shut as what little strength she had faded from her. 

With her hand pressed to her side, still bleeding, she trudged, wondering where Drogon was taking her again. He was in a trance, she thought, seeing his red eyes fixed on a point in the distance. It was the mountains. What now, she wondered, looking up at the sky. How long had it been since she left Asshai? 

She felt it may have been hours, but it could have been days or months even. 

For hours, maybe days, she followed Drogon to the mountain. It never got any closer. It was an illusion, she wondered. She slept fitfully again. Tried to forget the hunger making her weaker and the blood dripping from the wound her lover had given her. Night was day here, the sun never really shining bright enough or her to tell. They were so far gone from the River Ash that she could not even use that as her guide. 

One morning she thought it may have been snowing. 

Or was it ash? 

She shielded her eyes and lifted them to the sky, before she dropped them back to the horizon. 

And to a little girl.

The little girl had dark hair, streaked with silver. Gray eyes stared back. She smiled and wiggled her fingers in a wave. Who are you, Dany wondered. The girl looked familiar. There was something familiar about those gray eyes. She stepped towards her and the girl giggled, turning and running off. 

“No!” she cried. She had to see this child. Where was she taking her? 

A surge of energy made its way through her. She ran after the child, who wore a black dress with flowing red and gray silks from her skirt. The girl kept turning her head over her shoulder, laughing with childlike glee. The shape of her face was thin, like a Northern child, but the silver hair…like a Targaryen. 

Are you my daughter, a thought struck her. My baby, the baby who died at the hands of her father. And of me, she thought. She ran after her, calling for her to wait, but the girl did not, leading her through rocky hills and crevices. She fell several times, her hands and knees bleeding from each fall. 

At one point she twisted her ankle, but ignored the shooting pain to continue chasing her, while Drogon flew overhead, keeping pace with her. 

She emerged suddenly at the edge of a cave, the girl gone. She turned in circles, crying out for the child. Please, she begged, where are you? She looked at the cave, dark and foreboding. The child brought her here. She reached for Dark Sister and held the sword aloft. She used it as a beacon, hoping it would lead her to what the little girl had thought she might find here, the rubies glinting in the darkness.

The cave narrowed with every step and she fell at the edge of a cliff, falling down several feet with a hard thud onto the rocks below. Blood trickled from a gash on her forehead to her mouth, but she pressed forward. She crawled on her stomach, gripping at the ground. Something called for her. 

Drogon cried when she reached them.

A crack in the cave ceiling allowed a small beam of light, barely bright enough for her to see, but enough to gleam on the scales. She sobbed in happiness, reaching for the first egg, her thumb grazing over the streaks of silver in the indigo. My child, she thought, thinking of the little girl. She grabbed for the others in the clutch, two more. A red with black streaks and a navy blue and silver. They were heavy, like her sons had been a long time ago. Life within just waiting to be born. 

She gathered the eggs, holding them to her as if they were babes, and crawled out of the cave, bleeding and dirty. 

Using some of the leather from her doublet, she tore it to form a sling, cradling the eggs and tying them to one of the spines, climbing onto Drogon. She fell against him, wishing she could be home. Home, wherever that was, she thought, looking at the eggs again. 

I used to think home was Westeros. When I got there I realized it wasn’t. Drogon took her to be reborn, but Jon thought he took her ‘home.’ Home to Valyria. Only Valyria was not really her home. It was just a place. Vaes Dothrak was not home either. 

I don’t have a home, she thought, closing her eyes around tears. Tears for her decisions. For the ones she had lost on her mad quest for nothing in the end. They died for nothing, she wanted to scream and howl. For me to go mad like my father, sent to the edge with grief and despair. The love of my life put a blade in my chest to save me from hurting anyone. Hurting his family. Hurting myself. 

She closed her eyes tighter. I just want to go home, she sobbed. She didn’t know where it was, but she knew who was there. Each time she thought of home she thought of a child. Her dragons. A home with a red door and a lemon tree like the one in Braavos. 

Where is home now though? I have no children. I have some of the dragons. A home with a red door and a lemon tree…she wasn’t sure if she would ever have that. 

And each time she thought of home.

His face swam into her view. 

She flew off, sending Drogon in a direction she hoped was the way out. 

\--

“No!” she screamed, clutching her side, blood still pouring from the wound.

She was back in the throne room and each time she felt it. Saw it. Each time she knew with every step what was going to happen to her but she couldn’t change it. It was a slow form of torture, wherever she was now. Somewhere in the Shadow, living her death, over and over again. 

With each stab she blacked out and woke. I love you Jon, she thought. I hate you Jon. I love you Jon. I hate and love you. She kept making her way through the ash and the grass, lost and spinning, everything looking the same as it did a moment before. 

She saw a lion eating at a dragon. A lion eating a wolf. A wolf eating a dragon. 

At one point she lay in the cold ghost grass and stared at the sky. A raven passed over and she closed her eyes, crying silently. Somehow she got up to her feet. Every single time she got back to her feet and sometimes Drogon returned. Sometimes he left. 

If I ever get out of here I will forgive, she thought, watching the moon come out from behind a cloud. Her eyes fluttered shut and she wasn’t sure if she meant forgive herself or forgive Jon.

\--

Her eyes flicked open. 

She was so used to seeing the gray sky she did not realize that she was looking up now at a thatched roof. She frowned. Her hands were warm and felt puffy. She looked down and saw they were bandaged with linen wrappings. The caked blood on her face was cleaned off and a blanket of strange fur covered her. 

“Where am I?” she demanded, her voice barely as loud as a whisper. She could not speak for her lips were so dry. She swallowed, but it burned, like she was swallowing ash. 

The voice that spoke was an old dialect of Valyrian, but she could understand it. “You need your rest, do not speak.”

Her head lifted and she forced herself up, staring forward at the occupant of the home with her, the speaker of the strange Valyrian dialect. There was a man, wearing a cloak that shadowed his face. She stared, not at the gray skin of his face, but the large leather wings that hung behind him and touched the floor when he walked. 

City of the Winged Men, she thought. I am on the far edge of the continent. 

She blinked, not allowing the wings to affect her. She had battled corpses. “Where am I?” she whispered. “How did I get this far?” She slung her legs over the side of the small bed, shaking her head. “I have to go.”

“Before you do, Your Grace.”

Your Grace? “I am not a queen,” she whispered. 

“You are,” he said. He reached into a trunk and pulled out a box. It was heavy and made of a strange black wood, it felt like velvet. He set it in her hands. His hands were scaled and claw-like, the skin on them also gray. “You are the queen we need here. You must be it for us.”

You are the queen we chose, Missandei would always tell her. You love us all.

She pushed open the box, staring at the egg. It was different, this one a beautiful pink and shining silver. In the darkness of the home, shades of black and gray her entire world these past few months, the pink almost blinded her. She ran her fingers over the scales, a pearly sheen following with each drag on her fingertips. She looked up at the man. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Use her well,” he said.

I will. She looked back up at him, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “How did I make it this far?”

“You have survived longer than anyone in the Shadow. You are magic, Queen Daenerys and you are fire and one day you will rule over Essos and it will be safe for all.” He closed the lid of the box. “Only you can accomplish it if you believe.”

I do, she thought. She nodded. “Valyria will be for all,” she whispered.

“Not for some of us.” 

No, for everyone. It will be a home for all. She looked up at the man with wings. “You are also magic, as am I. You will never be sent away for any reason. We all need a home.” Some of us most of all. She closed her eyes, thinking of the child she once birthed. “My son Rhaego had wings. He was born deformed and ruined, but if he had not died and if that was simply how he was, I never would have sent him away. I loved him.”

The man stretched out his wings in the small house. They were beautiful, she thought, like a dragon. She wanted to ask, but he already knew her question before she did. “The Valyrians of old experimented. They played in dark magic and blood magic. They were punished and destroyed, but some of us escaped the Doom.”

She blinked. “You came from the Doom?”

He merely nodded. “When the dragons would not breed for a time, they tried to create them. I am one of those creations.” He lightly nodded to her again. “As was your son. The blood of the dragon is not simply a saying. It is real. You are one as much as I am.” He paused. “As much as the wolf is too.”

Her ancestors were monsters as much as the ones they tried to create, she thought. She shook her head, whispering. “I will never do such a thing. New Valyria is a place for everyone. The slaves, the broken, and the damned.” She felt tears falling down her face again. “I will have no children of my body, so you are all my children.”

The man did not smile or show any acknowledgment of her acceptance. He simply whispered. “You are the mother of dragons and wolves.”

Not wolves, she thought. She shook her head, thinking of the blue child she held in her arms in the Temple of Rh’oller. “The wolf died.” 

“The wolf will be reborn.”

She thought of the little girl who led her to the eggs. The little girl with the silver and black curls and the gray eyes that looked like Jon’s. That child was dead, she thought, closing her eyes around tears. We killed her. Her voice rasped. “I cannot let him near enough to do that.” Not right now. Maybe she could forgive him, one day, but she still feared it.

“In time.”

I do not think so. My children are my dragons and they always will be. 

Some time later the winged man let her dress and fed her once more, a strange stew that sent even her stomach on fire. She was not sure if it was made fo the food of the Shadow or something else, but she could at least stomach it. She found Drogon outside, the eggs still attached with the sling. She climbed atop him and looked at the winged man. She nodded her head. “Thank you for your hospitality. It will never be forgotten. New Valyria is for your people as much as it is for mine. All the magical and broken beings of this world.”

He lifted his hand in goodbye. “One day we may meet again my Queen. If not, remember what I said. The wolf will be reborn.”

In only my dreams, she thought, nodding again and turning to Drogon. They lifted from the ground, only this time, she thought, staring ahead at the glimmer of sunlight in the distance, Drogon heading straight for it, she knew where they were going. They just had to battle their way out. There were more there waiting for her to find. More children to save.

And she was going to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is done and I will post soon since this one was so 'mythology' focused.
> 
> Next time: Jon discusses the origins of the North with Quaithe; Dany returns.


	12. Dragons in the North (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon discusses the North with Quaithe; Dany returns.

It had been months since he watched her leave for the Shadow. 

He thought if something had happened to her, Drogon would have returned, or Silverwing or Eddarion would have signaled. He remembered Drogon’s return to the keep when he killed her, the dragon no doubt drawn to the cut in their connection. He closed his eyes at the memory of the great beast nuzzling his dead mother, as if encouraging her to wake, before he reared back and sobbed.

He flew around Asshai on Eddarion, wondering if he couldn’t go into the Shadow with her. Each time he tried, Eddarion would refuse, turning away and heading back to the water. Silverwing was the same, although she would not let him ride her. She was not his mount, if anyone’s, the silver and blue beast far more independent than either of her two brothers.

Today he remained inside the quarters he’d called home for the last few months. He worried for her daily. Not like he slept anyways, but he had barely shut an eye since she flew away. He wondered about that kiss. The unthinking had been the best thing he could have done, but now he thought about it. There would be no going back and if she regretted it then he would never touch her again. 

He sat at a desk, quill over some parchment. He wrote to Sansa, lying about how he was and where he was. It came far easier than it ever had before. He remembered as a child when Robb had wanted him to lie to their father about who broke the window in the kitchens when they were playing with their toy swords and Robb’s had flown from his hands and through the window. Robb wanted to pin it on one of the grooms, but Jon had not been able to lie, telling father it was Robb. 

Now it was just lying freely, telling her he was above the Wall and would likely not return. Ranging into the Lands of Always Winter, where he was meant to belong. He wrote how Winterfell was in the hands of a Stark, but he was no Stark. He was simply a lone wolf. He stared at the words on the page and set the quill down. After a moment, he rolled it up and walked to a cage of ravens, removing one and tying it on, sending the raven out the window. 

Maybe it would get to her. Maybe it wouldn’t. He didn’t care. He watched the raven disappear and frowned. Ravens. He walked over to the books Kinvara had given him on the old religions of the North. He flicked through them; he’d read the book at least twice. There were only mentions of the warging, the mystical Children of the Forest who created the White Walkers and how they turned against them. It was the First Men who came and destroyed what was there before. The First Men…he grabbed the book and ran from his room. 

It took a bit to find her, in a study in the building beside them, but once he did, he threw the book down in front of Quaithe, spinning it around to show her the drawing of a man turning into a falcon. He jabbed his finger on the page. “What is this supposed to be?”

Quaithe merely glanced over the top of the book she was perusing. “It appears to be an illustration of a warg.”

No, it wasn’t just an illustration of a warg. It was of an illustratin of warg and in the background was the Fist of the First Men. He shook his head, his voice quiet. “How did a book on the First Men wide up in an Asshai library?” He remembered Mance speaking of his cloak. The black crow cloak with the red thread, from Asshai. Found by a free folk woman, washed on the frozen shore of the North. 

He leaned over the table, thinking of what Bran said about his abilities. Yes, he was a warg, and that did not concern him. It was everything else he claimed. “What is the Three-Eyed Raven?” he asked.

Quaithe closed her book. “It is unknown, known only to the Old Gods.”

“You know about it.”

“The Three-Eyed Raven is a greenseer.”

Old Nan spoke of greenseers. Men and women who could see into the future. The Three-Eyed Raven claimed to live in the past. The free folk did not even know what the being was. He frowned. You could say Quaithe and Kinvara and even Melisandre were greenseers. They saw things in the flames, the future and the past. He looked at the book. “The King of the Six Kingdoms claims he is the Three-Eyed Raven.” He paused. “My brother.”

Quaithe blinked. “You are all the same.”

We may be all the same but that isn’t something that we want to hear. Or understand. The First Men followed the Old Gods of the Children of the Forest. He leaned on the table, shaking his head. “I cannot understand it.” He prayed to the Old Gods, bowed before the heart trees. He closed his eyes. He could never do so again with Bran able to see through their crying faces. “How do I block him?” he whispered.

“It is not easy.”

“Is it possible?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then do it.” He pushed from the table and walked to the door. He stopped, his fists clenching at his sides. He closed his eyes. “Can you feel her?” 

“She has passed beyond my sight.” Quaithe turned the page of a book again. “The question is not if I can see her, but can you?”

The first time she died, he had felt it in his soul. Something shattered inside of him. Sitting in the Black Cells, half a man, not even that, reliving the moment in his mind along with the other ones. The ones of her in his arms. Saving him in the North more times than he could count. And watching the blood trickle from her nose and mouth, staining the snow below her body. The world had lost her and in a way he lost himself.

He still felt that pulse, somewhere in his body, shared with her. It was weak but there. He closed his eyes. “We are the last dragons,” he whispered.

“The dragons have served the wolves. The wolves have long forgotten, but the dragons have not.”

_Like their dragons, the Targaryens served neither gods nor men._ The saying went. Dany believed it. He frowned and turned to the shadow woman. He could not understand these strange riddles she posed. He walked to her and looked at the map. He touched his fingers to the illustration of the Wall. The Wall, built by a Northman. The Wall, magic holding back magic from those who would never understand what it could do. He dragged his fingers along the illustration.

Dark Sister at The Wall.

Maester Aemon.

Brynden Rivers, a Lord Commander. 

“The North Remembers,” Quaithe whispered.

He closed his eyes. It could have been so different. “Not nearly enough,” he whispered. He looked over to Quaithe. “Brynden Rivers disappeared at the Wall. A Targaryen bastard. A Targaryen bastard with a Valyrian Steel sword.” His hand went to the pommel of Longclaw.

“You are not a bastard.”

Might as well be. He looked at the book again, the image of the warg. Dany called them ‘dragon dreams.’ Dreams where she was her dragons. Dreams long before they were even born, when she was a child. The story of Daenys the Dreamer, who saw the future of Valyria and encouraged her family to flee to Dragonstone. It was all the same, he thought, dragging his fingers on the old worlds. He looked over to Quaithe, whispering. “The stories in the North…I heard one once. Bloodraven.”

Quaithe nodded. “The dragons have served the wolves.”

A Targaryen bastard was once a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Disappeared above the Wall. They said he became part of the forest. He laughed. And laughed. And laughed. A Targaryen was once a Three-Eyed Raven. Now it was a Stark. 

Fuck, he laughed, tears falling because he could not think. 

Fucking North. Fucking Targaryens. Fucking Starks.

“We’re all the same,” he laughed. He looked at Quaithe, her eyes unmoving and blinking behind her lacquered mask. He pushed at the map, sending the other papers around her falling to the floor in anger. He punched at the air, allowing the surge of anger in his blood to take him. “Fuck!”

He turned and he hated his family. He closed his eyes against the pain. They stood there and they let him leave when they could have just said ‘fuck it.’ Grey Worm and the Unsullied had left, as had the Dothraki. Yara Greyjoy was placated by Bran becoming King, but not for long. She would not have done anything against him anyway for killing Dany. Sansa could have fought for him, so could Bran, so could Arya, but they let him go North. Exiled, unable to hold lands and titles again. 

And in the end, they held the North and the Old Gods and Bran above all. 

When in reality we were all the same. Dany was the same. He looked at the map. 

We came from the same place. 

He knelt and picked up the map, tearing it in half. It was ancient and the paper crumbled slightly as he tore it. He moved the one half over to the other and blinked at the image he created. He laughed again. Fuck. “We’re Essosi too,” he whispered. The Grey Waste became the North, became the Lands of Always Winter. 

_What’s west of Westeros?___

_ _The little sister who kept information from him, who judged the woman he loved and refused to trust him, and who stood there and as upset as she was at him leaving, had allowed him his exile. Meanwhile she was somewhere in the world, heading straight towards him. He lifted his eyes to Quaithe. “Where is my sister?” he whispered._ _

_ _“She was here, they said. A ship with a wolf mast. She made her way to Oldtown. She will return.”_ _

_ _“Will I ever see her again?” He was so angry with her. He loved her so much. The only one who was truly kind. Who understood the wolf within. He owed her questions. Questions about the House of Black and White and the double standard…so many questions he could not let go._ _

_ _“In time.” That was a long time, he thought. He closed his eyes as Quaithe spoke again, repeating Kinvara’s words, the twist on Maester Aemon. “Kill the wolf Jon Snow and let the dragon be born.”_ _

_ _“I’m neither.”_ _

_ _“When you were a little boy you dreamed of being a lord, a king, and a conqueror.”_ _

_ _He glared at her. “Those were the dreams of a bastard.”_ _

_ _“You are not.” Quaithe emerged from around the table. “You are Aegon Targaryen. Until you realize who you are, you will not find the peace you seek.”_ _

_ _What peace, he thought with a harsh laugh. “Tell me then, if you can see the future, will she ever forgive me? Because that is all I care about right now. I don’t need it from anyone but her.” Not my family, not the fucking Seven Kingdoms, not evne the ghost of his dead father. Fathers. _ _

_ _All he wanted was Dany to release that pain and that hate and betrayal. Know that he loved her and he wanted her and he would die ten times over for her. He hoped she understood the kiss was just a piece of that._ _

_ _Quaithe bowed her head. “In time Jon Snow you will what you truly seek.”_ _

_ _“Enough of the double speak!” he shouted. He turned. He would not find answers there. Stupid of him to think he could. He went back to his rooms and grabbed his cloak, wrapping it around him and lifting the hood over his head. His dark curls were wild around his head and he had stopped grooming his beard. He felt like a wolf, loping away from the buildings and down to the wall that overlooked the sea. _ _

_ _He stood and stared at the black waves rising and smashing against the walls. Above him Eddarion screeched, but not in a tone that bothered him. He could feel the dragon’s joy as he sailed along the wind streams above. He felt the shadowbinder behind him, silent as a ghost. He waited for her to stop beside him. _ _

_ _“You must be there for her,” she said._ _

_ _“Why do you think I am here?” he scoffed.  
“You are the only one who understands her.”_ _

_ _Sometimes I cannot comprehend anything that went on in her mind. He shook his head. “I thought I did. I didn’t think she would murder thousands. Children.”_ _

_ _“You were betrayed. You died. You lost a child as much as she did.” Quaithe continued, when he said nothing. “You are both on similar paths, but hers will diverge first and yours later.”_ _

_ _I hate this speak. He glanced at her again, hissing. “I told you, if you can see the future and you know what happens, I only care about forgiveness. I only care about if she gets her home.” The home she deserved. The home taken from her. By them. By her bloodline. He left Quaithe, this time disappearing into the city and taking to the shadows like the binders of them, his cloak serving as his mask, blocking him from the rest of them. _ _

_ _\--_ _

_ _He woke screaming, pain exploding in his heart. He coughed, trying to breathe through the fire that made its way through his body. Gods, he prayed, eyes wide and trying to comprehend what was happening. He pulled at the skin on his chest, the wounds black and pulsing as though they were fresh again. He stumbled out of bed and pulled on his boots and cloak, not bothering with a shirt as he ran from the house. _ _

_ _Eddarion and Silverwing were screaming, panicked and alarmed. He could feel Eddarion’s terror. He spun in circles, unsure where to look or what to do. There was no one. Just him. He ran for the port, just in time to see the great shadow of Drogon emerge from the darkness behind the city. “Dany!” he bellowed, his heart straining against his ribs. He ran for Drogon, the beast crashing down onto the silent stone, and he sobbed, seeing the tiny body roll off his bleeding back. _ _

_ _Dark gashes and tears at the iron hard scales startled him, but Drogon took off as soon as Dany fell to the stone, clutching a bundle against her chest. He knew the other dragons would help, so he fell to her side, turning her slightly to stare at her face. “Gods,” he begged, reaching around to lift her up. He pulled off the cloak, ignoring the freezing winds on his bare skin. “Gods please, Dany, no do not leave me!”_ _

_ _He bundled her up and tried to take the package from her and leave it, but she gripped it tighter, her eyes rolling back into her head and a feathery whisper slipping from her lips. “No…my children…”_ _

_ _Blood slid down her face, dark and smoky, like his now after his death. He gathered her and ran for the house, screaming for Kinvara and Quaithe, the sounds swallowed by the stone. _ _

_ _The shadowbinders and another masked woman tore at her already tattered clothes, speaking words he couldn’t understand and stroking at the wounds that crossed over her pale skin. He could not take his eyes off the pulsing gash beneath her left breast, the way it seemed as fresh as it did the day he gave it to her. He felt his wounds again. Was it the magic that brought them back from death that did this to them? _ _

_ _“Is she going to be okay?” he demanded. _ _

_ _They said nothing, still working on both the exterior and what he also imagined were interior wounds. She shook from cold. She needed heat, he thought, running to the fire, grabbing a burning log and ignoring the blistering pain in his palm, already shining from the burn he received from the lantern when he saved Lord Commander Mormont. He did not think it was as painful though, like a dull ache, as he took the flaming log and rested it beside her, lighting the sheets under her on fire. _ _

_ _“Yes,” Kinvara breathed, her eyes flashing in the flame as the bed went up around Dany’s body. _ _

_ _He watched as she curled into the fire and suddenly her eyes opened and she gasped, her back arching off the bed and then falling back, and her chest rising and falling again in a different rhythm. Calmer. _ _

_ _He stared as the wounds seemed to heal around her as her body gained strength. He reached for the fur cloak on the floor and smothered out the flames, binding her in the furs. The bed around her was ruined, ash and smoke floating in the dim air. He crawled beside her and wrapped her tight, ignoring the still smoldering pieces of the bed around him. It felt somewhat comfortable to him. Like a light kiss._ _

_ _I will not let you go, he vowed. He felt her gasp beneath him, but her eyes remained closed. He continued to hold her and then when he finally moved her to a clean bed, he remained at her side, holding her hand. _ _

_ _Like she did to him after his quest, a long time ago._ _

_ _\--_ _

_ _“Jon…Jon…Aegon…”_ _

_ _He heard his name somewhere in the back of his mind and his eyes opened with a slight start. He felt his back crack as he sat up in the small chair, gathering his bearings. He was in his room and he’d changed awhile ago, after checking on her, and somehow must have fallen into rest. He looked sideways and saw her, violet eyes open and questioning. “Gods,” he whispered, immediately falling from the chair and to his knees at her bedside, reaching for her cold hands. He blew on them again and rubbed tight, reaching to tuck the furs around her tighter. He laughed and dropped his forehead to hers, their noses brushing. “I thought I lost you.”_ _

_ _“Again,” she murmured._ _

_ _Yes, again, he thought, nodding. He closed his eyes, still holding her hand tight in his and feeling the warmth return. This place drained her of her energy. It may give him a sense of life, but the magic that had brought him back and returned him to strength seemed to weigh heavier on her. “What happened,” he breathed. _ _

_ _“Long story,” she croaked. Her eyes widened and she began to flail, trying to get off the bed. “No! The…the children!”_ _

_ _The children, he nodded, closing his eyes at the pain that rose back. “I know Dany…the children…you burned them but you’re sorry, it’s okay now…”_ _

_ _“No,” she cried, trying to look around him. “The eggs! My children!”_ _

_ _Eggs? He remembered the heavy bundle she refused to let go. Gods, he suddenly thought, jumping up and running over to the fire, where he had seen Quaithe place it earlier. He pulled at the bloody, torn leather and stared, in shock, at what he found within. _ _

_ _Six dragon eggs, each one a shimmering and pearly color, glowing in the firelight. The only things that seemed to shine in this dark and lonely place. He touched one, a vibrant orange and red, and then another. Three seemed alive under his touch and the other three…he lifted one, the indigo and silver. “That one is different,” she whispered. She shook her head, her voice still a whisper. “Our daughter…I think she was our daughter…she showed me.”_ _

_ _Our daughter, he thought, eyes closing around tears. “You saw our daughter?” he whispered. _ _

_ _“It had to be her,” Dany cried. _ _

_ _He carried the egg with him and nestled it beside her while she rolled to hug it to her. He glanced at the other two, the ones that seemed to glow less. He picked them up as well and brought them to the bed, cradling them between their bodies. He nuzzled at her nose and she moved to him, still crying. He hoped he did not regret this, he thought, still clutching the eggs. “What did she look like?” he breathed._ _

_ _She sobbed into his chest. “Beautiful.”_ _

_ _Of course she would be beautiful. She was the daughter of Daenerys Targaryen, he thought, reaching his arm around to pull her closer. She flinched slightly but did not pull away. The eggs between them seemed to shine now. He touched the navy and silver, wondering what creature lay within and to whom it would belong. There were so many now. What would happen?_ _

_ _As though reading her thoughts, she whispered. “I found the three…she led me to them. One came from a winged man, a gift.” She swallowed hard. “And the other two…I was trying to come back but the Shadow did not want me to leave yet. I found them. Fought for them.”_ _

_ _Dark Sister shined on the table beside her, the dagger beside it. He nodded to the weapons. “Do you want them with you?” _ _

_ _She shook her head and he felt his heart leap to his throat in joy. “Maybe I’m mad,” she laughed. She reached closer to him. “I’m so cold here. I hate it. Please…you were always so warm.”_ _

_ _The wolf, he thought idly, or maybe the dragon instead. He wrapped her up around him and burrowed with her beneath the furs. She was still tense and nervous as she should be, he thought, lying in the same bed with the man who murdered her with a kiss and a stab to the heart. “Please tell me we can leave,” he whispered into her silver hair, having grown out long and tangled now to her shoulders. _ _

_ _She nodded. _ _

_ _“Let’s go home.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews :) I hope you're still enjoying this story.
> 
> Next time: Tormund returns North; Dany and Jon make a discovery in Silverwing's nest.


	13. Dragons Remember (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon grow closer, but their past still stands in the way; Silverwing reveals a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggestive sexual themes in this chapter, which only will increase later-- no overt smut though (I just can't write it, lol, I'm not that good). But fair warning.

“Are you sure you need to go back?” Dany asked, feeling heartache at the notion of the great wildling departing Valyria. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the silk sleeves tighten against her arms.

Tormund chuckled, handing off one of the packs of food to Rono, who was loading up a caravan that would head to Braavos, to set sail for White Harbor. “Aye Queen Dragon, I’ve been away long enough.” 

“It feels like you just got here,” she said. It had been near four years though. Almost five. Hard to imagine she was approaching one decade since she died. So much had happened since then. She smiled up at him. “And how are you going to make your life as interesting in the North as it has been here?” 

He laughed, walking away from the caravan with her towards the castle, his great arm slinging over her tiny shoulders. “Ah Queen Dragon, sometimes even this Giantsbane needs a bit of rest now. My bones are too warm. I’m getting soft.” 

“Not if you keep drinking mare’s milk,” she joked.

“Aye, I’m bringing some of that back too.”

She laughed. “You going to try to convert the Northmen? Something tells me those fuckers will take one look at it and throw it to the cows.” 

He smiled down at her, his blue eyes sparkling amongst the wild red hair and beard. His hands went ot her shoulders and he leaned down, giving her a kiss on the cheek. It was oddly comforting and also out of character, she thought, frowning a bit. “They did not deserve you, Queen Dragon,” he said. He smiled again. “But you always have a home among the Free Folk.”

The sentiment almost broke her. She ignored her tears and rose on her toes, wrapping her arms around him. He enveloped her up and she came off her feet, burying her face into the furs he already had put on. She sniffed and fell back to the ground. “Here,” she said, walking over to the bag she had brought with her to see him off. 

She reached in and emerged with a cloak. It was silly, but she thought of him as an honorary Dothraki, an honorary Valyrian. She offered it to him and he took it, smiling at the pretty buffalo fur that made up the collar. She grinned and pointed to the embroidery. “I thought it prudent that you have your own sigil,” she said, tapping to the horn, surrounded by flames. “House Giantsbane.”

He roared laughing and flung it on over his furs. “I love you Queen Dragon!” He lifted her clear off her feet again and she giggled as he spun her around. She gave him another kiss and he laughed. “One day I’ll take you from King Crow.”

She merely smiled. “I think he is upstairs.”

“Aye, I haven’t told him yet.”

The smile on her lips flickered upside down to a frown. “What?”

“Aye, he’d brood about it too much, you know how he gets.” He swooped down and gave her another bone-crushing squeeze. He whispered into her ear. “You take care of him Queen Dragon. I’m not here to kill the fuckers who mess with him.”

I will, she vowed, nodding. She let him go and watched as he made his way upstairs, wearing his new cloak. She crossed her arms again and wandered away. The sun was setting. The new dragonglass buildings and spires were shining in the evening glow. Valyria has been reborn, she thought, her hands touching the walls as she looked down over her kingdom. 

Ever since they returned from the Shadow there had been a change between them. Jon was no longer as timid around her. He fought with her more, challenged her more, unafraid now that she might strike out with the dagger in sheer fear. She no longer felt like every move he made would be to attack her. She welcomed his comments and his suggestions as they worked to unite the cities. He stayed away though, when she added a new city to the ranks. Lys and Lorath and Norvos. She had flown to YiTi to treat with the Golden Emperor, to invite their trade and people to new Valyria, although YiTi would remain free. 

There was a journey planned to Ghis, the history between the Ghiscari and the Valyrians still raw despite the thousands of years of history long gone. She wanted to add the islands there as they were the best ports for trade with YiTi and to send to Asshai. The Basilisk Isles and the Summer Isles and all that lay to the South. There were the Northern cities and the ones beyond the Mother of Mountains. 

Jon went with her. Each time she visited one of her cities, he was there, watching from the shadows. She learned to expect his counsel, was upset when he did not give it. She hoped he would not be too sad at the loss of Tormund. His last Northern connection. She went to her rooms, finding herself unable to truly see Tormund depart. He had been such a presence in her life these last few years.

The brother I never had, she thought. She changed from her more formal gown into something looser and more comfortable in the changing summer heat. She undid her braids, let the curls fall to her shoulders. She stared at her reflection in the glass. Who was this woman looking back? She was so much older than she thought of herself. She reached for a silver dragon clip and pulled back some of her hair, clipping it back from her face.

And she turned to her bed, but did not want to get into it. She did not want to be alone. “Damn,” she cursed, sweeping up to her feet and snatching her belt with her sword. She tied it around her pretty purple gown and made her way across the floor to where Jon stayed in Valyria. 

As she arrived, Tormund was departing. They said their farewells one more time and she was alone with Jon. After a few minutes, she found herself in his arms and then in his bed, both of them lying side by side, their shoulders lightly touching as they looked up and out the domed window above the bed, the stars already twinkling in the evening. “I will miss him,” she whispered.

“Me too.”

“They are leaving now to avoid the heat of the day. They should be in Braavos in several weeks. A few more to White Harbor.”

“Yes.”

She looked sideways at his profile, the scar that made its way across his eye. She lightly touched at it. He turned, moving to his side and folding his hands under the pillow. She traced the other scar. “I forgot how you got these.”

“A warg…I killed him while he was in a falcon…he did not care for it.”

Wargs, like Brandon Stark. The ability to go into a creature and see through its eyes. Like she did with her dragons from time to time. The Targaryen ‘dragon dreams.’ We’re all the same, she thought. She reached for his hand, her thumb tracing over the smooth burned skin. “And this?”

“Told you, saved Lord Commander Mormont from a wight.”

“You are not fire-proof like me.”

“Getting there I think,” he teased. He shrugged at her questioning look. “It doesn’t hurt as bad.”

Even if he had a dragon, even if he could begin to withstand fire, he was still also a Stark. She thought of his familiar, her heart pained for him. “What about Ghost?” she whispered. She had not been able to fully see his connection with the great direwolf when they were in the North, preoccupied with other things. He spoke endlessly of the creature though on their journey to Winterfell and she had very much looked forward to meeting him. He connected with her dragons and she wanted to connect to his wolf. 

Although he probably would hate me too, she thought, sighing. He reached and lightly tugged on one of her curls, falling from the clip. “Ghost will be here soon enough. When Tormund returns to the North, he is going to see about sending him to me.”

“And you think Ghost will like that?”

“Ghost does not like much,” Jon laughed. He smiled again, whispering. “I have to go back eventually. I could bring him with me on Eddarion.”

“A wolf flying on a dragon? There is a sight to see.” 

He lifted his eyebrow. “You’ve already seen it.”

They were referring to him of course. She sat up, letting her hair fall over her shoulders. She looked down at him, still watching her with those brooding gray eyes. “It has been so long since I died and since you came to find me, but I feels like yesterday,” she murmured. She felt his eyes drop to her scar, peeking out from the gown she wore. It was one of her Mereeneese gowns, with a bra-like top that then turned to two thin strips of fabric crossing over her stomach to the skirt, revealing most of her midsection. It was loose and comfortable in the Valyrian heat, but she knew it also showed the scar a bit.

He sat up and dropped his arm over his knee. “I will never hurt you,” he said.

“I know,” she cried. She hated her mind sometimes. Maybe it was the madness that still lurked inside of her. Like all the Targaryens. “I still cannot stop feeling scared Jon. It is like a part of my head will not listen to the other part.”

“I will be here for as long as you live Dany.”

She nodded. “I cannot let go of the dagger.” It was still on her hip, the belt tugging a bit at her hips when she sat up further. She still did not fully trust him. Would she ever? Part of her hoped so. Especially if he was truthful and he would not leave. She no longer wanted him to leave. Not like before. 

He reached for her face, lightly turning her chin to him. His head dropped down to hers and their noses brushed. “One day,” he murmured. “One day Dany.”

She nodded and allowed his lips to brush over hers. She moaned softly and her hands clutched at his shirt, reaching under the ties at the neck to smooth her palms over his collarbone. His large hands tugged at her side, pulling her over him as they dipped beneath the fabric of her skirt. She flung her leg over his hip and returned the kiss as it grew more frantic, their hands moving fast over each other’s skin. 

Oh gods, she thought, her eyes rolling back into her head as he reached his hand around to the back of her dress, pulling at the straps. One of the straps fell and she pulled him up with her, breaking the kiss and tracing her lips down the taut muscle in his neck. His hand pushed at the cup of the bodice, rough against her breast as he palmed it. 

It felt so good, she thought, desperately pulling at his shirt. Don’t stop, she silently begged.

Until his hand went to the scar.

“No!” she screamed, pushing him back and jumping away. She clawed at her dress, bringing it up to cover herself. She sobbed, the tears hot on her face. She fell backwards against the bed, turning and rolling off, sobbing as she gripped her hand to the wound.

“Fuck Dany!” he scrambled off the bed. She turned away from him, still crying. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, over and over. 

She cried, for herself and for him, for their past. She turned around and reached for him again, pressing her face into his chest. Not yet, she thought. She shook her head as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him. She sniffed. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“I never should have touched you.”

Now he was going to brood, she thought, closing her eyes. She could already feel him closing off, the chill emanating off his body. She tilted her head back and brushed at the dark curls that fell over his forehead. His brow wrinkled in concern and slight fear. “Just hold me,” she said. For now that was all she needed.

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I just can’t be alone right now.”

They returned to the bed and she curled against his side. They lay like they did many times before, with her under the sheets and him atop them, this time though, both of them remained awake, staring at the stars. 

\--

“_Kessa_,” she replied, sending away some of the Volantene advisors who had journeyed to Valyria to discuss a curious loan request from a certain Hand of the King. She waved her hand in further dismissal as they glanced at each other. She looked at them again, continuing to speak in Valyrian, her words stringing together quickly, reminding them just whom they were speaking with. “I gave you your orders, if you do not agree with me, please do say so, otherwise, you have your orders. Thank you.”

They bowed their heads in acknowledgment and departed her solar. She sighed, pushing up from her chair, the closest thing she had to a throne. The dragon heads carved into the arms snarled at her as she kicked it back slightly, walking over to the open archways, looking out at her courtyard. It was filled with flowers and she hoped butterflies would come, but the still smoky and foggy skies above blocked th sun.

She didn’t know much about flowers and plants, but she imagined they required sun, as most things did, to survive. She wandered away from her work, ignoring the scrolls that were piling up from Daario in Tyrosh. He was offering her a marriage contract, saying it would make her appear more powerful, but she thought the idea of a single female ruler was more powerful than if she had a man at her side. 

For someone born in Essos, Daario had a very Westerosi view of things, she thought, walking through her courtyards and to the dragon’s tower. She watched as Eddarion buzzed around like a little bee, chirping happily. He must have just gone for a ride, she thought, smiling at the happy dragon. It was still amusing to her that the happiest of her three dragons, the most childlike of them all, was Jon’s mount.

She dropped her gaze from the dragon to Jon, who was pulling off his riding gloves. He reached at the ties and tugged off his gambeson, slinging it over his arm. “You know you do not have to wear those heavy garments here,” she said. It was not like it was the first time though she’d told him. “I can have one of the seamstresses fashion you something lighter.”

He shook his head. “No, it gets cold up there sometimes.” 

Maybe for you, she thought with a smirk. She nodded to Eddarion. “He’s happy.”

“Aye, I took him diving off the cliffs.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Into the Smoking Sea?”

“Just to the tops of the waves, he likes it.” 

And if you fell off, you’d burn alive in the bubbling volcanic water. She didn’t say anything. She wasn’t his mother. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you seen Silverwing?” It had been a few days since she’d seen the blue and silver. While the only female of the family had always been independent, this was quite unusual. 

Jon nodded towards the tower. “She’s in there.” 

I hope she is okay, she thought, striding towards the tower. It was a former rook, from what she gathered, for the dragonlord who lived in her castle before her. There were alcoves for the dragons to fall off and fly away and the spire was the tallest of the ones in the castle’s compound. The stone was fused with dragonfire, making it strong enough to not crack or shake as even Drogon landed. 

Her son had kept his nest at the top, bringing his kills and burning them there. Sometimes he knocked the charred bones off and anyone had to be careful when they approached the rook, lest a burned sheep skull hit them on the head. She ascended the stairs, spiraling around to reach where Silverwing kept her nest. The beautiful icy blue dragon turned a sapphire eye on her, watching carefully. 

She breathed to her in Valyrian, her hands outstretched and open. The dragon sniffed at her hands and reached to nuzzle at her slightly. She let out a low cry and turned to watch as Jon entered the alcove. Continuing in Valyrian, Dany cooed to the beautiful girl, encouraging her to finally move away from her nest. As she moved, Drogon arrived, spitting a horse down onto the stone and burning it for Silverwing, who immediately began to eat as though she had not been hunting in ages. 

Jon wrinkled his nose, still a bit queasy when he saw how the dragons actually fed themselves. He nodded to the nest. “What is she hiding?”

A stream of Valyrian flowed from her lips when she saw what Silverwing had been protecting. She reached in, her hands shaking, and touched one of the eggs. There were four of them in the clutch. Each one more beautiful then the last. She looked at Silverwing, who was still eating, tearing loudly at the bones. Drogon had already departed, having done his duty in providing her a meal. 

She stroked one of the eggs, bright orange and red. Like fire. “Who is the father?” Jon wondered, lifting another egg, a yellow and green. 

“No one knows how they breed,” she murmured. It was missing from all the books she had uncovered and all the research that both Kinvara and Quaithe had done for her in the libraries of Asshai. It was a mystery to only the dragons, the most mysterious of the world’s creatures, she thought. She wondered sometimes if her dragons could lay eggs, but they never did. Or if they did, she hadn’t found them. She looked at Jon, who was studying the egg he held. “You will not find the answer there. As I said, no one knows.”

Drogon flew by, screeching at them. Eddarion poked his head down from the alcove, letting out another coo like a bird. Sometimes she wondered about that dragon. Perhaps being an egg in the Temple of Rh’llor for as long as he had been had done a number on him somehow. “Drogon you dirty dragon,” Jon teased, calling out to Drogon who flew to grip the side of the building, his giant head filling the open archways. 

Drogon made a sound like a scoff and flew away. “There’s no real way to determine the sex of a dragon, I just assume based on size,” she said. She replaced the egg, not wanting to take away Silverwing’s babies. Silverwing moved, settling herself back on the clutch and draping her neck around the eggs. 

They left the mother to her children, going down to the great brazier in the center of the rook, where she had laid three of the six eggs she brought with her from the Shadow. The three her daughter, for it had to be her daughter, had led her to were kept in a chest in her rooms. Every evening she slept with one of the eggs, hoping perhaps it would speak to her. They remained cold and different from these three, which glowed with the flames around them. 

She touched one in the fire, shaking her head. “They aren’t ready,” she murmured. “Maybe soon.” She wasn’t sure how else to hatch them. Silverwing had hatched on the volcanic mound in Valyria and Eddarion in a sacrificial pyre. She remembered when her sons were born. The way they clutched to her, Viserion around her ankle, Rhaegal in her arms and Drogon at her shoulder. 

Drogon continued to blow fire on the eggs, but they didn’t birth yet. She turned away and went out, Jon following after her. They wandered through the main gate, Grey Worm giving Jon a dark look. She knew he still did not trust the man and she did not fault him for it. They walked down the streets, which now seemed to fill with people bit by bit, although Valyria would always remain a mysterious and strange place.

They moved to one of the cliffs overlooking the main entrance to the strait that cut between the two biggest islands, where she had made her capital. She stood at the edge, staring down at the beautiful gate, which kept out anyone who dared to enter without permission. The smiths from Myr and Qohor and YiTi had done a glorious job with the sculptures at the top of the iron and bronze. 

Her sons were immortalized forever in the beautiful jade, bronze, pearl, and silver of the best Essosi artisans. It seemed as though the two dragons would break away from the top of the gate and fly away. She wished theyw ere here with her. Wished they could see just what she had accomplished. “I miss them so much,” she cried. Sobs shook her shoulders, overtaking her in complete surprise.

The emotions must have just been sitting there for too long, she thought, remembering her beautiful children when they were just babies, cuddling against her. When they were grown and confused as she locked them away under the pyramid and then when they broke free. When they flew in such happiness and freedom above Dragonstone, where their ancestors had also flown. 

Jon reached for her, cradling her head against his chest. “I am so sorry Dany,” he rasped. He pressed his face into her hair. “If it were not for me they might still be alive.”

Maybe that was true. Maybe they would died in her conquest of the Seven Kingdoms otherwise. “I just wish people understood what it meant,” she said. They just stared at her when she referred to them as her children. The ones who knew what they were to her were dead. Jorah and Missandei. She remembered how Tyrion and Varys would roll their eyes or look away when she referred to them as her children. They didn’t know what it was to feel as though a piece of you were missing when they died.

The people of the North didn’t understand. She lost Viserion for their cause, to plead their cause to Cersei and for what? For her to ignore them and betray them. Another one of Tyrion Lannister’s fucked up plans go awry. And then Rhaegal…that was all her fault. She should have let him rest longer. He was weak from the battle. She killed them both. 

“I wish I could make it up to you,” Jon whispered. He pulled her tight against him. She nuzzled into his chest, slightly disgusted with herself that she wanted him like this. He was genuinely sorry, at least that mattered. He understood what it meant. Lying there in the ship, bending the knee to her after she lost one of her children. 

_They’ll come to see you as I do._

_I hope I deserve it_

I hate the North, she thought. I lost everything for them. I hate them, she thought again, looking back to the memorial to her children. “Please do not fall back to their lies,” she breathed. 

“What?”

She pulled away from him and looked up into his dark eyes. “You said you wish you could make it up to me. That is how you can make it up to me, what little can you do for all the pain that you and your family have caused my life.” We could go all the way back to fucking Lyanna Stark at the Tourney of Harranhal. If she had just stayed in the North, Rhaegar would not have fallen for her and they would not have run off and my family might still be in power. Jon Snow would never have come into her life and would never have killed her. 

And maybe, just maybe, she would have the true family she wanted so desperately.

He nodded. “They are my people, whether I think it or not, Dany.”

They would always be a part of him. His family and his blood. As much as she could see the dragon within him, straining against the wolf, Jon Snow was a Northerner. She nodded. “Just let that part of you, the wolf and the North…” She curled her fingers around the scar on his heart. “Please just think a bit longer before you trust them blindly again. You say they’re stubborn and you are as well, but like I said before, Ned Stark lost his head because of his honor. Do not lost your heart too.” She glanced at the gate and then to him again, at the torture that crossed his face. “And your sister sits on the Winter Throne as the Queen in the North, but she did not lose honor to get it. She schemed and she plotted and tell me Jon…is that something Ned Stark would be proud of?”

She knew the answer, saw it in his eyes before he closed them. He opened them a moment later. “You said not to lose my heart as well as my honor.” His fingers trembled, touching her side where beneath her silk dress the wound cut through her skin. “I already have.” 

He walked away, returning towards the castle. She stood rooted in place, watching him leave. She turned, her arms over her chest and sank to her knees, continuing to stare at the gate, remembering her sons as they used to be, and wondering what came next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and reviews! I have a new chapter to post tomorrow, not sure if morning or evening.
> 
> Next time: In Pentos, Dany tells Jon about her time there; Jon tests Dany to see if she's ready for 'them.'


	14. Pentos (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon take Pentos; Jon realizes Dany isn’t ready.

“On this day the Magister Council of the Free City of Pentos hereby renounces any individual governance and acknowledges the sovereign and absolute rule of Queen Daenerys of the United Cities of Essos!”

The crowd cheered, full of newly freed slaves and even nobles of Pentos, who saw Daenerys Targaryen as their daughter, as she had spent a large majority of her life in Pentos as a girl. They sought protection from any Westerosi invasion, knowing the continent across the Narrow Sea was dying out and the people trying to flee. 

He leaned around a large column, watching as the Magisters announced their devotion to Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, and how they would begin providing new opportunities to the citizens as a member of the United Cities. He smiled slightly, seeing the banners of the three-headed dragon flying beneath the banner of Pentos. 

“Lurking?”

He looked over his shoulder, smiling at Dany, who approached him slowly, wearing a striking gown of red Essosi silk, the material gathered at her shoulders with dragon clips. She wore trousers, as she often did these days, with her boots, and her belt with her weapons. Today her silver hair, the longest it had been in months, pulled from her face in intricate braids and into a tail down the middle of her back. He gestured to the balcony, where the Magisters still stood. “You aren’t out there with them?”

“I do not want to be the center of attention,” she said.

“Funny, since you are their Queen.”

She shook her head, standing beside him in the shadows of the columns. “The people are the ones who should be celebrated today, not me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing a deep breath. “Besides, the more I gain here, the more I am at risk from those who still seek to destroy me.” 

That was truer than he cared to admit. Now she had all the original nine cities of the Valyrian Freehold under her control, plus the cities on Dragon’s Bay. All that was left was Braavos and then she would potentially turn her attention to the ones on the outlying areas of Essos, but for now he knew she still wanted Braavos, the crown jewel, she called it. He nodded. “I understand.” He sighed. “I was a king once, I did not want it, but I took it.”

He wasn’t sure why he brought that up now. Maybe because she was a Queen who was hiding in the shadows from her achievements, doing it for the people rather than for herself now. She looked sideways. “I wanted you to be my king,” she murmured. She smirked. “You killed me instead.”

That was different. He shook his head and placed his hand on the pommel of Longclaw, leaning his weight onto it. “The people wanted me to have it, the Northern lords and the Free Folk…I did it to protect them and keep them safe.” He turned to her again, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “And I bent the knee and removed my crown when I saw a better option for them.”

“And they rejected me,” she whispered. She looked at the massive crowd beneath the Magister Palace. She shook her head, her eyes shining in the bright sun. “And these people want me.”

He thought of that day in the Great Hall at Winterfell. The threat from the Boltons was gone, the path to healing had begun, but the threat from the Night King loomed. He accepted the King in the North title because it was what was best for his people. He understood them and he thought he knew what they needed and what they would trust, but he was wrong on that one. Maybe they aren’t really my people, he thought, maybe I didn’t understand them at all. He shook his head slightly. No, no he didn’t understand Sansa. They should have crowned her. She went behind his back with the Battle of the Bastards. They won because of her. 

Maybe she should have been Queen in the North from the beginning. Maybe nothing else would have happened after that and I could be living in a cottage somewhere, with my child…he closed his eyes and pushed the thought away. He never wanted children, to the point where he was content with remaining a virgin for his entire life as a Night’s Watch brother, and then everything seemed to happen and now here he was, dreaming of a future he could never have, with a child that had purple eyes and silver hair. 

He sighed, looking at her face again. The pride and the happiness and the joy. This was how they should have seen her, he thought. The true leader they needed. “I thought I understood them,” he whispered. 

Her eyes darted to him and then returned to the crowd below. “Hm,” she acknowledged. She reached up to her neck, lightly touching the necklace she wore, a silver piece that resembled a dragon curling around her neck. 

You fucking fool shut up, he thought, but his mouth kept going. “That as why I was King in the North, where I understood them, and where I thought Northern independence was more than we deserved.” He sighed. “I was wrong.”

She stepped from the light, as the Magisters continued to wave at the celebrating crowd on their independence day. She fixed her gaze on him again, pointed and accusatory. “Well you didn’t know them even if they are your people. What will you do if they even find you here?”

I’m sure Sansa will try to have me brought back, he thought. Tyrion Lannister might try to have my head, to put an end to this once and for all. He shrugged. “They could kill me. I deserted the Night’s Watch.”

“You did the first time.”

“No, I didn’t. I died, my watch was over.” He shrugged again, realizing that he never really did take his vows again when they sent him back there for exile. “Or not I guess…either way it’d be more than I deserve if they did.”

Her lips pursed. She looped her thumbs in her leather belt, tugging it to where it pulled slightly over her slim hips, Dark Sister glinting at the movement. “And…and what if I do not want you to die?”

A smile tugged slightly. He frowned. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Not want me to die?”

Dany turned her head up and stared at him for a moment. He couldn’t read her expression. They had been through so much leading to that point. There were nights where he could not even fall into his restless sleep without her there. Sometimes she would crawl into his bed. Other times he would go to hers. They just stared at the sky, spoke of their pasts, and pretended the gaping chasm between them wasn’t there. 

She released a deep breath, the dragon head on her necklace bobbing slightly on her chest with the movement. She broke her gaze and looked straight ahead, as one of the Magisters turned away and walked towards her. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He smiled. That was something. He straightened up, slightly protective as the Magister, the one called Ilyrio Mopatis, approached. He bowed his head. “Your Grace,” he greeted her, a broad smile on his broad face. He kissed her fingers. “I remember you as a little girl, scared of your brother, and here you stand before me, a true Targaryen Queen. It is all I have ever dreamed of.”

Her lips quirked. “Quite interesting Magister Mopatis, as I recall you wanted my brother on the throne and arranged my sale to a Dothraki khal for it,” she said, her voice cool.

The Magister flushed. “I…well…”

“Never mind. This is an auspicious day and I am glad for your assistance in bringing it to pass,” she said, bowing her head slightly. This was the Daenerys he wished Westeros could have seen. The one who could strike you down with one word and lift you up with another in the same sentence. The true leader and ruler they needed. 

Mopatis gestured for her to enter the manse, leading her to a room. He followed, not trusting the rich man’s motives, while Grey Worm moved in lock step with him. Likely not trusting either of them. They remained at the back of the room, while Mopatis opened up a chest at the back of the room. “I have a gift for you, my queen, although I did not think we would have the company,” he said, frowning at the two of them in the back.

Dany switched to Valyrian; Jon understood just a bit to hear Grey Worm’s name and the man bowed his head in acknowledgement. She gestured to him next. He heard the word for ‘king.’ She switched immediately to the Common Tongue. “This is Jon Snow, you may know his name as the former King in the North, the bastard of Ned Stark.” She smirked, her eyebrow arching. “When in fact, Jon Snow is the trueborn son of my brother Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.” She glanced at him again. “He renounced his claim to the Iron Throne when he put a dagger in my heart.”

Mopatis’s mouth fell open slightly, staring at him. He sputtered a bit and looked to her, confused. “Then why…”

“It is a long story,” Dany said, folding her hands in front of her. “He serves me now. The last two Targaryens in the world, exiled again from their home, but no matter.” She nodded to the box that Mopatis held in his hands. “You said you had a gift?” The sun streaming from the windows sparkled in her violet eyes. “I like gifts.”

He was reminded how childlike she could be sometimes. The sharp turns from a seductive woman to the smiling child. He looked around the great room they stood in, wondering if she had been here before, the last time she was in Pentos. He wondered if she was also playing a part, the flattering queen to Mopatis’s ego. 

It worked, the Magister bowing his head again. He stepped towards her, still holding the box. “I remember when you were a young girl, shy and quiet. Your brother was cruel and unkind…as I said and you corrected, I did want a Targaryen…any Targaryen…” He glanced at him, standing in the corner. Jon merely scowled. “To be on the throne. I did not realize the extent to which Viserys would go.”

Dany merely smiled, her face still masked. “He was not a dragon,” she said.

“And you are, my dear.” He reached for the lock on the box, speaking while he pulled the clasp and lifted the lid. “This took me quite some time to find…I was hoping that I might be able to find the original for your coronation as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms but…” He narrowed his eyes at Jon. “It seems that was taken from you too soon.” He lifted the box, revealing a silver ring with a pearl and ruby. “I tracked it down to a rich businessman in Braavos…the crown is long gone, but a piece of it remained…I had them fashion it into a ring for you.”

Jon was not sure what the ring was meant to symbolize, but whatever it was, it meant something to Dany, who lifted her hand to her mouth, tears immediately falling down her face. Her hands shook as she reached for the ring in the velvet, removing it and staring at the item as if it were the most precious thing in the world. She spoke in Valyrian, almost to herself. She lifted her eyes to Mopatis. “How did you…” she trailed off.

He bowed his head again. “As I said, it took quite some time. This was all I could find of your mother’s crown.”

Oh gods, he thought, his mouth falling open. He gasped and took a step towards her, but stopped. This was her moment. She trembled, slipping the ring onto the middle finger of her left hand, gazing at it with awe and memory. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Even with twelve cities at your command, you are a queen, and I know you do not want a crown, but you deserve this one,” Mopatis said, setting the box aside. He took her hand and kissed her knuckle again. “My Queen.”

It seemed to be too much then. Dany nodded and muttered something, gathering her skirts and holding onto Dark Sister so hard he saw her knuckles turn white. She ran from the room, her other hand with the ring to her mouth. He followed her, watching her disappear down the corridor. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, leaving the room, and stumbling towards his. 

That evening he waited, wanting the sun to go down and most of the manse to fall asleep. He crept from his room, leaving Longclaw behind and made his way to where Dany slept. He paused at her door, one of the Unsullied not even blinking at him as he knocked a moment later. He supposed that was a success, she hadn’t ordered them to kill him on sight when he came to her rooms. 

Her door tugged open and she stood on the other side, wearing a long white linen shift and a purple silk robe over top of it. She smiled a little and stepped back, allowing him entry. She didn’t wait and walked to the open doors of a balcony, where she had been sitting when he knocked. He joined her, leaning back on one of the large, lush pillows that she had propped on a bench against the railing of the balcony. She leaned her arm on the railing, gazing over the gardens below. “When I was a child I stayed here a few times…the last was when my brother married me off to Khal Drogo in exchange for his armies.”

He scowled. “Sold you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, twisting her mother’s ring on her finger, staring at the ruby. “He did sell me. For 40,000 men and horses, but he was wrong…they followed me and not him. Drogo killed him.” She looked sideways at him. “This was where I got my children…Ilyrio Mopatis gifted me them on my wedding day…he said the ages have turned them to stone, but to me they were the most precious things in the world. The only thing I could treasure that day.” 

It was a horrible day, he thought, reaching his hand to cover hers. His thumb brushed over the ring. He shook his head slightly, seeing her eyes darken at whatever memory came to her. “Your brother was a fool,” he whispered. 

“He was mad,” she said, turning her attention to him again, eyes shining. “He was corrupted by the power and so I was…so was my father. So was Rhaegar.” S he laughed. “Maybe your wolf blood makes you immune, or maybe you are mad in your own way Jon, but that saying about the coin is not true…” She shrugged, a tear leaking out of the corner of her eye. “The gods don’t flip a coin and see what side it lands on. They just laugh because it is always madness.” 

Greatness is madness, he thought, squeezing her hand. “My family was mad too,” he whispered. He smiled sadly. “They were blinded by their obsession for the North. Their ignorance of anyone who didn’t come from their line. We’re all mad in the end.”

She looked back out again, staring at the gardens. She pointed. “That was where we received our gifts.” She lifted her head, her eyes following something in the distance. She pointed. “And we left…Drogo gave me a horse. A beautiful white mare. I thought it was kind of him, but…” She closed her eyes tight, tears trickling out again. “But while that was a great day in that I received my sons and set forth on my path…he raped me that night.” She frowned. “And again after that. For a very long time.”

Gods. He clenched his hands into fists and shook his head. “Dany, please,” he whispered. Gods the things this woman has been through. The violence and the pain and I…he let out a pained cry. I killed her. He wished that they had known. His stupid sisters. If only they knew. They didn’t get to be the only ones who had to go through hell to get what they deserved. Dany had as well and we just took it from her and turned her into a monster. “I am so sorry,” he cried, kissing her hands. 

She shook her head, leaning it down to him, her nose brushing his. “It is what it is Jon. I overcame. I fought back.”

“You loved Drogo?” He couldn’t imagine.

She shook her head. “I did in a way…but not the way I…” She bit her lip and pulled her hands from him. She drew her fingers to her lips and tucked her feet back under her, returning to gaze at the trees and the Narrow Sea in the distance. 

He reached for her hand and ran his thumb over the silver dragon with the ruby in its eye and the pearl in its mouth. “Tell me about your mother,” he whispered. He only knew her name. Rhaella Targaryen. The books said nothing about her, only of her husband’s treachery. “What was she like, do you know?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She sighed. “Viserys never talked about her. I think it hurt him. He was there you know…I’m not forgiving him but he saw what my father would do and say…” She bit her lip. “I didn’t know the extent to what my father was like until Ser Barristan Selmy told me. Viserys always spoke of what he did like it was a good thing. Only ever said terrible things of our mother. She was weak, she deserved what she got…but he was a scared little boy who didn’t have anyone to love him and he had to take care of me in the end.”

She looked up again. “Jamie Lannister came to me at Winterfell. I told him the truth. Viserys would always tell me stories of the lion that murdered our father and what we would to do him. The Kingslayer. We would burn him alive as our father did his enemies.” She smirked. “It turns your stomach. The idea that you have this in your blood.”

“Yes,” he said. He was not going to lie about it. The madness that was present in Aerys disgusted him. Made him question some of his decisions, looking back, but…he wasn’t sure if it was there. He hoped it wasn’t.

Dany looked down at his hands, rough and callused from fighting since he was a child. “You are lucky Jon Snow…you had Ned Stark. You have my brother’s blood in you. Rhaegar was simply a mad fool, but he was not a monster. Not like the rest of us.”

“Your mother was not a monster,” he whispered. He squeezed her hands. “And neither are you.”

“I was. That was why you killed me.” She continued. “In any case…the Kingslayer told me after I demanded it of him, not as his queen but as the daughter of the man he murdered. He owed it to me to tell me about my mother.” She began to cry again, silently. “And he said that he wanted to protect her, but my father attacked her repeatedly. She would arrive in court with terrible burns and marks…he hurt her all her life. She only ever tried to be a mother, but she was sick and terrorized…I had more siblings than just Rhaegar and Viserys and each one took something from her, each stillbirth and miscarriage.”

She took a deep breath. “The only thing we had was her crown. When she died, when Ser Willem Darry took Viserys and I across the sea to Braavos…he took it with him, to help us one day. In the end all it did was buy us a little more time. A little more shelter and a little more food, but we always ended up on the streets.” She smiled sadly. “You were a bastard in a castle and I was a princess in the streets.”

The extent to what she experienced, he had no idea, not until now. Even in the cabin on the ship to White Harbor did she dive into that. He knew it was no excuse for her behavior that terrible day, but it explained more and more about her each time he learned more. “You will never live like that again,” he vowed. “And you protect the ones who need food and shelter. No one will live like that so long as you are their queen.”

He took her hand again, kissing the ring. She smiled. “Thank you.”

After a moment, he leaned in and kissed her, his hand gently cradling the back of her head. Her fingers brushed at his beard as her mouth slanted over his, lightly pressing her tongue towards his. He drew her into his lap and she wrapped her arms around him. After a moment, she began to pull away, but when he moved to get up, she simply shook her head and drew him back down over her. 

It lasted an eternity, or what felt like one, just the two of them pouring their feelings into the kisses. He dragged his hand down over her thigh, which lifted to hook over his hip. He marveled at how she fit so perfectly against him, nestling him in the crook of her hips. She rocked slightly against him and he groaned, pulling back, their foreheads touching as they breathed deep, trying to gather themselves. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered. 

Her forehead furrowed. “What?”

“Not like this.”

“Not like what?”

He closed his eyes, knowing what would happen when he did it, but hew anted to be sure. He ran his hand down her side, feeling her shiver and then she stilled. He could hear her breathing increase and her heartbeat start to thud faster. He shook his head and tore himself away, getting to his feet. She pulled herself up into a ball, her knees to her chest and her forehead pressing into her arms. He shook his head again. “Dany…it’s not time yet.”

“Will it ever be time,” she wondered. She laughed. “Will it ever be time again, Jon? You killed me and I still let you this close and…and I wonder if I am not just mad again.” She dropped her head back down, her voice muffled. “Can we ever be as it was…because I don’t know.”

He shook his head and turned to look over his shoulder. “I don’t know either.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, getting up. She walked back into the bedroom and towards the door, tugging it open for him. She leaned against it, smiling sadly. “Our time has passed Jon Snow. I am merely your queen and you are my advisor. Until such time you decide to return to the North.” 

He walked over to the door and lowered a kiss to her forehead, stroking lightly at her silver hair. After a quiet moment, he merely nodded. “Good night Dany.”

Tears swam in her eyes. “Good night Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tease it is a slow burn :)
> 
> Next Time: Dany goes to the Iron Bank; a Northerner ventures South. ;)


	15. Iron Bank (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany visits the Iron Bank in her quest to take Braavos; Jon brings a visitor from the North to the South.

“Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” the tall man at the head of the dais drawled. He smiled, but when he did, Dany was reminded of a snake about to strike. He held his hands out. “Welcome to the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

Dany narrowed her eyes on Tycho Nestoris. She stood in place, her feet together, hoping to project the strength she wanted him to see. Her outfit had been chosen with care that morning, hoping for him to see her for the warrior queen she was. Visenya reborn, she hoped. Black leather pants in her boots, black leather coat with the blood red scarf hanging from her shoulder, pinned in place with the silver three-headed dragon. Her hair, the longest she had allowed it to be in years, braided heavily and intricately from her face. She had even allowed one of her Dothraki maids to paint her eyes the way the khals did, dark and ominous as she stared down the men at the dais.

Tycho looked around the room, making a show of it. “I see no armies. No advisors.”

She had left Jon to wait in the city. This was her battle. She smirked. “Do you not think a Queen can move without her armies and her advisors? Are you planning on doing something untoward?” She also made a show of looking around, turning in a few circles before coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs leading to the dais. “How do I know we are truly alone?”

He frowned. “I do not understand.”

“Your Raven King,” she drawled, arching her eyebrows. He swallowed visibly and looked to his companions. She grinned. “Ah, I thought so. Well you will be happy to know that he does not see me.” 

Tycho shook his head. “I do not understand,” he laughed.

“Your King or perhaps it was his Hand, they convinced you he can see everything, correct?” She laughed. Of course they did. Manipulation was the only word Tyrion Lannister understood. “Well I will save you the trouble of lying to me in an attempt to convince me that your allegiance lies with the Broken King of Westeros.” She pointed her finger up to the ceiling. “My dragon flies overhead. Your precious king cannot see when a dragon is around. Or did he not tell you?” 

They all began to fumble a bit, looking foolish, and their normal bravado caught off guard. She smiled again, glad to see them falter. Idiots. She cleared her throat. “You know why I am here.”

Tycho waved his hand. “You say our king. Let me get one thing straight, Queen Daenerys, the Iron Bank does not follow a king.” He paused. “Or a queen.”

“You granted Cersei Lannister a sizeable loan when she was on the Iron Throne, a loan you need paid back.” She smirked. “Since Westeros is not overrun with Essosi attempting to get your coin back, I imagine the Broken King has convinced you to forgo the loan. I am sure he is well aware of whatever misdeeds you may have committed.” She continued to speak, the head of the Iron Bank’s face going white as she spoke the truth. “Now Tycho if you were in Westeros you would find that he may have been telling the truth, but if you were here when you received that news, I assure you…” She arched an eyebrow, her voice cool. “It is merely another lie the little lion breathes.”

The men at the dais exchanged worried looks. She smiled again. “And even if he is blackmailing you to forgive the loans of his predecessors and whatever loans they continue to take out to pay for their continued wars and famine, I assure you, I have more coin than anyone in this world, more even than the Iron Bank. I have twelve cities to my command, three full grown dragons, plenty more dragon eggs, and my armies would die for me, which is something that cannot be said for the so-called armies of Westeros.” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself as the dragon rose up in anger. 

It was the past, Dany, she thought. You do not need them. Let go. She took another breather, allowing them to process what she had just said. Tycho spoke quietly with some of the others at the table and then stood. He narrowed his eyes down at her. “If you have all the coin we know you have, you are richer than the Iron Bank. What can we offer that you do not already have?”

She lifted her chin, smiling. “I will pay off Cersei Lannister’s loan for the Golden Company.”

He laughed, surprised. “And…why would you do that? From what we gather, the Golden Company bet on the wrong horse so to speak. Why would pay off the loan for Westeros for a company that they could not even use to keep the throne?” He lifted his eyebrows, his voice filled with boredom. “I hear there is not even a throne anymore.”

Dany placed her hand on the pommel of Dark Sister. All their eyes dropped to it. “I will pay off the loan for the Golden Company, but the loans they have continued to take out to rebuild their sordid kingdom.”

“A kingdom you burned and destroyed.”

“And I died for it, but look where they got them,” she said. 

Tycho tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. He smirked. “What of the rest of the Golden Company?”

“They work for me.” She grinned. “They just do not know it yet.”

“We hear you have a wolf with you.”

Fuck, they knew about Jon. The news did not necessarily surprise her, eventually someone would speak of the wolf that hid in the shadow behind her. Or saw him on Eddarion as he flew from city to city. He tended to put on a cloak and wander the streets of the cities, gathering information from the people on the ground and reporting back to her. He would hide in the crowd when she met with the people. Someone was bound to notice. 

All she did was stare back at Tycho. “You heard wrong,” she lied. She laughed. “The wolves are the Wall and in their precious North. Why would they come to Essos? Especially since a wolf killed me.”

“My sources are well placed and trusted.”

None of his sources were within her closest contingent of Dothraki and Unsullied. No one would speak. It was someone else, if at all. She paid it no attention, sighing in pretend boredom. “What use would a dragon have with a wolf?”

“We hear from Westeros that he was a real dragon, hiding in wolf’s furs.”

“The dwarf lion made sure he could never be a dragon,” she said, continuing the use of their house sigils rather than names. “Or did you know that he sent my murderer into exile at the Wall?”

“We did.”

She continued. “I care not for the affairs of Westeros or what that pissant Imp lion does. He wanted to survive and he did. They are dying there, results from their own infighting and refusal to change their world.”

“And you free slaves,” Tycho said.

“The slaves freed themselves.”

“Until you grow bored and burn them?” Tycho challenged. “Like you did to King’s Landing?”

They had no reason to drop that, but she was growing weary of it in this conversation when she thought she had made clear her intentions with them. She nodded her head. “I regret that very much,” she said, quiet. Contrite. She truly was and gods she wanted to take it back. Each time they said it, she felt a tiny cut on her heart. “I promise you it will never happen again. If anyone burns it is because they chose it.”

“And how do we know that?”

She laughed. “Because I took a knife to the heart and was reborn.” What more could they possibly want? Daenerys Targaryen died in Westeros and was reborn in Essos. The best solution for them was to back her when she decided to take Braavos. She just needed to assure it.

They shared another look. Tycho nodded and gestured towards the door behind her. “We need to think on this. If the Iron Bank supports you, the Braavosi Sealord will have to fall and he does not want that, of course.”

“He will in time.” She saw it with her eyes. The people were angry. More Westerosi came over by the day, seeking support and a new life. The new Sealord had made some terrible mistakes and he would pay for them. By giving Braavos over to her control. “His people are angry. You all may pay to the coin, but there are many here who pray to others. The Many Faced God, the Lord of Light, the Black Goat, for example. They are angry.” She smiled. “I trust you gentlemen will make the right decision.”

She turned on her heel and strode out, making sure they saw Dark Sister in its full glory at her hip when she turned to her side and pushed the door open. She exited the Iron Bank and onto the street, joining Grey Worm. “What did they say,” he asked.

She shook her head, scowling. “They have to talk. It is for show, they will fall.”

“And if they do not?”

“Then they watch as I take the city without their support and they will be begging for my forgiveness,” she murmured, walking with Grey Worm through the bustling streets. She descended through a series of narrow walkways and stairs to a bridge over one of the canals, pausing when she saw a familiar cloaked figure at the bridge. She called out in Valyrian. 

Jon turned, smiling a little. “You know I still cannot understand that language.”

“Your Dothraki has gotten better,” she said.

“How did the Bank go?”

“We will see,” she murmured, turning to look at the canal below. She studied the imposing structure in the distance, the House of Black and White. Somewhere by it was the Temple of Rh’llor. She planned to go visit the priests and priestesses there, to grant them her support as she sought to ensure their freedoms. She had also established a House of Healing and wanted to visit as well, but she would need to first change from her current outfit to something that blended in more.

Jon seemed to be blocking something she couldn’t see behind him. “What are you hiding?” she asked, trying to see. She thought she saw something white behind him. 

“A surprise.” He smiled and stepped aside, whipping his cloak back to reveal the giant direwolf, who was sitting in place, his tongue out and panting. 

“Ghost!” she exclaimed, laughing and offering her hand. He sniffed it and his red eyes locked onto hers. She hesitated. He didn’t like her, she thought. She tried to hide the disappointment and stepped backwards, but then to her surprise the wolf jumped, his paws going to her shoulders as he licked her face. When he extended himself up, he was larger than even her. “Oh!”

“Ghost!”

The wolf fell back to four feet, nuzzling her hand. She laughed and knelt, her fingers curling into his soft white fur. He was so quiet, she thought, leaning to press her face to his neck. He was so soft too. “How did he get here?” she murmured, stroking him. 

“Tormund sent him with some of the Dothraki that journeyed with him to the North. It seems his, ah…friend, shall we say, did not want him to depart,” Jon said, smiling as he referred to one of her handmaidens, Eneri, who had been quite taken with the wildling. 

“Does he not have a wife in Hardhome?”

“It is possible Tormund has many wives, we will never know.”

“I suppose he has a Dothraki one now.”

“It will certainly invite plenty of questions,” Jon agreed. 

They began to walk through the canals and the bridges, Grey Worm following close behind. Ghost licked her hand again, pushing himself between them. She continued to stroke his head, avoiding his missing ear in case it pained him. “He is such a good boy.”

“He is the best boy.”

They meandered a bit more, not saying anything. They ended up at the house where she was staying, entering and going their separate ways. She changed from her leathers, choosing a simple light gray coat with dark gray trousers and a light cloak which she draped around her and used to cover her hair. She removed any insignia that identified her as the Dragon Queen, and left the room, returning downstairs where he was sitting in front of the fire with Ghost. 

She leaned on the wall, hiding behind it as she watched. Ghost was giving him a look she only could characterize as a glare and Jon also seemed to take it as such. “I know you’re mad at me boy, but it was the only thing I could do. Unless you want me to take you on the dragon?” Ghost bared his teeth, but no sound came out. She remembered that he said Ghost was mute, hence his name. “Well then you had to go on the boat, sorry boy.” 

He dug his fingers into Ghost’s neck, scratching up behind his ear. “Sometimes I have no idea what I’m doing here,” he murmured. He looked at the wolf. “I’m glad you’re here though, silly as that is.” He sighed. “I don’t know when I’ll go back North. Someday but…you’ll see what I mean soon enough.” He shook his head, whispering, to himself if not to the wolf. “It is the least I can do…serve her until the day I die, whether it is saving her or by her.” Ghost cocked his head. “No boy, if she does it, you don’t do anything. It’s how it will supposed to be.”

She closed her eyes, her hand on the wall. She blinked at her tears and cleared her throat, making a show of entering the room. He looked over at her, frowning. She gestured behind her. “I just came downstairs.” In case he thought she was listening. Which of course she was. 

He nodded, but didn’t seem to believe her. “Aye.”  
“I am going to the House of Healing. You are welcome to join.”

He reached for Ghost. “I don’t think I should. People might talk. I’ll wait.” He paused and looked down into the fire. “We should talk about the future.”

Future? She fiddled with her ring. The future was a scary thing. She didn’t like to really think about it, beyond her current plans. She had done that a long time ago and it had brought her nothing but pain. “No,” she whispered.

“No?”

She shook her head and lifted the cloak over her head. “No,” she repeated. She stared at him, violet eyes meeting gray. Do not make me say it, she thought. She sighed and felt her throat constrict. Her voice thick. “I do not want to talk about the future, but I still want to kill you.” 

He dropped his head, eyes closing. “Aye.”

“And I want to love you.” Fuck, she thought, watching his head whip up and eyes widen. Do not hope too much Jon Snow. She looked away. “And I want to hate you and I hate myself for that. You put a knife in me and yet I still want to love you and be with you and kill you and I just…I can’t think of the future right now.” There. It was done. He was right that evening in Pentos when he pulled away from her. 

They had not kissed since that evening. She was embarrassed and frustrated and he was right. She was not ready as good as his touch made her feel. Until her mind remembered the last time he kissed her, the last time his touch made her feel good, he had also ended her life. It was best for them both if they continue to keep distance in that regard, she thought. 

He nodded, whispering. “I understand.”

“Good.” She pursed her lips again, drawing herself and her shoulders up, behaving like the queen she was. “Grey Worm will escort you to your ship, to take you to Valyria. I imagine Eddarion will not be pleased, but he will follow behind.”

“I’m going to Vaes Dothrak.”

“Your choice of course,” she said. 

“I’ll see you there.”

“Yes.” She touched Dark Sister. “I will miss our sessions.”

“Keep practicing,” he said, smiling. His eyes met hers again. “Eventually you’ll be able to trust yourself with the blade in a way you never have before. I look forward to seeing your progress.” He bowed his head. “Your Grace.”

She accepted the title from him, the distance he was placing. It was best for now. She looked to Ghost, smiling at the beautiful creature that had fixed his red eyes on hers. “I will see you soon Ghost,” she whispered in Valyrian. She smiled and dropped her eyes to the floor. Speaking to herself. “_Kostilus ȳdra daor vēdros issa raqagon se tolie isse se sōnia gaomagon._

To her surprise, the wolf dropped his head to his paws and blinked, in a way that suggested he knew exactly what she was saying. Jon looked at him and then to her, frowning. “What did you say?”

She cleared her throat. “Told him I’d see him soon.”

He lifted his head slightly, looking at her through slightly lidded eyes. “You did?”

“Hmm.” She hesitated and then spoke again. “_Nyke'll ūndegon ao aderī. Issa zokla_.”

She turned and left, not realizing until she had gotten several streets away that she was holding her breath. She stopped, smiling to herself. _Zokla_ It was what Grey Worm referred to him. She smiled a little more. He’d figure it out. She hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: _Kostilus ȳdra daor vēdros issa raqagon se tolie isse se sōnia gaomagon._= Please don't hate me like the others in the North do.  
_Nyke'll ūndegon ao aderī. Issa zokla_= I'll see you soon my wolf.  
_Zokla_= wolf
> 
> Yay! Ghost is here! Sorry for the confusion a bit for the last chapter, I need to edit it and make it make more sense when Jon pulls away-- Dany gets scared when his hand goes to her side, she isn't physically ready yet. In time though-- stick around for Chapter 23.
> 
> Next time: Dany must mete out punishment; Dany makes Jon promise her something.


	16. Punishment (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon discusses justice with Dany and makes her a promise.

_Zokla_

Wolf, it meant, he’d figured from the way Grey Worm sneered it at him. He never expected the man to call him by his real name, nor did he ever expect her loyal commander to look at him with anything other than disgust. He kept thinking of what she had said to Ghost. The sad way she said it, speaking directly to the wolf like she did her dragons. 

And Ghost knowing exactly what she said, blinking his eyes the way he did when Jon spoke to him. He also had pieced together what she said when she left. _Issa zokla._ My wolf.

The possessive was what got to him. He smiled into the fire, watching the flames dance high as he tossed another bit of kindling onto it. He lightly touched his fingers to the flames, but drew back at the heat. Guess he wasn’t developing the fireproof abilities she had. 

Ghost rolled his red eyes up, glowing in the firelight. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, for only the hundredth time. He chuckled at how the large wolf looked smaller with most of his fur shaved off, but he had to do it in this heat. Just until they could get to Valyria where the cold water from the springs piped through the stone and chilled the rooms and the winds off the water were surprisingly comfortable in the dragonglass rooms.

The wolf was also grumpy do to the attention he gave to Eddarion, the dragon annoyed that he wouldn’t fly with him, choosing to ride a horse with the wolf loping beside him. He had to placate both of them and it was proving to be a full-time job. All the while he still was trying to teach the Dothraki the swordplay he had learned from Ser Rodrik, but they just laughed and said it was useless. 

Rono always pushed him aside when he tried to draw the sword. “Too heavy, too big, and too Westerosi,” he always said. He threw a bow at him. “Shoot this from horse.”

In the end they were training him.

He lifted his head from the leather he had begun working together, fashioning a harness for Ghost for when they did need to fly to Valyria. It would be interesting when he tried to get Ghost into it. The wolf was eyeing him again. “Never you mind,” he said as he followed the dark shadow across the sky, Drogon coming around to land in his usual spot in the mountains. 

So she was back, he thought, wondering if she would visit. He tried not to let his leaping heart get to him. Like a lovesick teenager. Not that he ever really understood how that felt; Robb had been the one to moon over girls. He had been more concerned about not creating another bastard for the world. He continued to work on the leather, punching holes and softening it in the fire. 

After a time, the moon more than halfway through the sky, he heard footsteps approaching. He lifted his head again, watching her come around. “Welcome back,” he said. 

She frowned, tucking the skirt of her sleeveless riding dress under her. “What is that?”

“A harness.”

“For?”

“For Ghost, for when he rides Eddarion.”

She snorted, reaching her hand over to Ghost, who immediately stood and came to sit on her side, nuzzling his head against her legs, his eyes opening and closing in contentment. She ruffled her hand in his fur and Jon rolled his eyes. Traitor, he thought, but he smiled. He was glad his wolf was happy with her. He continued to work the leather, not saying anything, just happy she was back from her travels. He tossed some of the leather that had peeled off from the side of the strap he was working into the fire, causing it to spark up a bit. 

She leaned over her knees and began to flick her fingers in the flames. He paused his ministrations, staring at the movement. It was mesmerizing. The way she did not flinch, just moved her hand through the flames, more than even Kinvara could do. He found he was leaning against her slightly, his bare shoulder in the Dothraki vest touching hers. She paused. “How has it been since I left?” she murmured. 

It had been weeks. Weeks of getting from Braavos to Vaes Dothrak and a few more of her being gone. He missed her. More than he thought he would. It had been the longest they had been apart since he arrived in Essos and found her. He pretended like it wasn’t as though he were counting each hour. “Few weeks.”

“Longer,” she whispered. She drew a deep breath and continued to play with the flames. “I had to go to Volantis. The guild there has provided a loan to Westeros. To rebuild King’s Landing.” Her voice went faraway. “And I went to Lys, where I had to execute a former master for continuing to send bedslaves to the Lord of Highgarden, who purchased them with his peoples’ coin.”

He felt his stomach flip. These were the Lords he had had a hand in establishing. He closed his eyes. “I am sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies.”

“Dany they’re my people and I…”

She glared at him, her violet eyes glowing in the fire. “They may be your people, but they chose their leaders. That was the point of the whole farce of the Great Council was it not? They chose their leader and with House Tyrell extinct, they decided to let the sellsword whoremonger take it instead of I don’t know the Hightowers or the Redwynes or the Oakharts…” she trailed off, shaking her head, muttering. “Even Samwell Tarly.”

He hadn’t thought of his friend in a long time. He paused his working on the harness, thinking of what Sam had told him in the crypts. It changed everything. He hadn’t had time to even think about what it meant before they were fighting the war against the dead and then going South and then it was all over. He hadn’t even had time to think about it before she was demanding he keep it all secret and refusing to acknowledge his discomfort regarding their relation. It seemed so long ago. So meaningless now. 

He wondered if they named their son Jon. After the Queenslayer and kinslayer and oathbreaker. The exiled dragon. Whatever they called him these days. If they thought of him at all, which they probably didn’t. He shook his head, whispering. “Sam would not have taken Highgarden.”

“Your friend would never accept anything from me, not after what I did to his family,” she murmured.

“Sam does not have the stomach for war and death,” he explained, unsure why he was defending the friend who did not defend him. He sighed. He had always defended Sam. From the very beginning until the very end, he supposed. “He would never understand that you did what you had to do.”

Her eyes darted sideways. “You agree with what I did to his family?”

“You gave them a choice. Bend the knee or die. They chose to die for their cause, for the Lannisters. They turned against their liege lord.” He thought of what he’d learned from his father. Ned Stark would have given them a similar choice. Maybe the Wall, but that was when the Wall actually meant something. He shook his head, whispering. “And his brother chose to die as well.”

“He did nothing to save his son,” she murmured. She shook her head, sighing at what he imagined was the memory. “But…interesting you actually agree with that choice.”

It was not difficult for him to understand at the time. He began to work on the harness again, knowing his next words would be difficult for her to hear, but he had to say them. “I just did not agree when you chose to execute soldiers who surrendered. Murder children, but…” he trailed off, hearing her sharp intake of breath. He nodded a bit. “But I guess I can understand the soldiers bit.”

Her eyes closed. Tears trickled down her face. “I have to do something,” she murmured. He saw her fingers quicken in the fire. Pulling at the smoke almost. “My…the homes I have been building. The places for the refugees and the victims of King’s Landing. The people who need food and shelter and medical care…” She turned her head to meet his eyes. Her brow furrowed in fear. “One of the Pentosi Magisters is stealing from the coffers…from the new House of Healing I established in his district.” 

Fuck, he thought. He sighed. “Is it Mopatis?”

“No. I thought maybe but he was well behind my taking of the city.” She shook her head. “No, it’s one of the other ones…I asked around and spoke with many and it seems he had an ongoing business arrangement with House Lannister for some time. He was simply taking what he thought he was owed.” 

He didn’t understand her fear. It was an easy answer. “He needs to go on trial,” he said.

“And if he’s found guilty?”

Stealing from the innocent people of the Houses of Healing was despicable. He glanced sideways. “What would you do? Send him to a prison?”

She shook her head, her voice breaking. “Essos does not have prisons, the only people who ever did wrong were slaves and they were simply killed.” She twisted her ring on her finger. The silver dragon looked as though it were alive, the ruby in its eye blinking. She took a deep breath, whispering. “I would need to set an example for the rest.” 

It would have to be death, he thought. He knew she had burned the Volantene merchants who refused to acknowledge her rule. She had killed a Myrish magister for the same. This was different though. This was not in conquest or forcing a bended knee. It was punishment. It was something that would have to set an example for the future. Justice in a United Cities of Essos world. In her world. 

He set the harness aside and moved closer, his arm going around her small shoulders, tugging her against him. They had not kissed since the night in Pentos. Months ago, it felt like, even though perhaps it had only been a few. He reached his fingers of his left hand, while his right gripped her upper arm, tapping them against her heart. “This is good,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear and the silver strands curling down over her cheek tickling his nose as he pressed it to her temple. He closed his eyes. “Your heart is good Dany. You know what you did before was wrong. You’ve done what you can to make up for it as best as you can. Trust it.”

It was the closest they had been in so long, he thought, as she turned her face into his. She nodded and reached for his face, her forehead touching his and her eyes closing. He took a deep inhale of her scent; lemons and lavender and roses and other things that he only equated with her. Smoke and fire and leather. “Will you be there?” she murmured.

He nodded. Anywhere she wanted, he would be there, he thought. “Aye.”

She nodded again. Tears continued to fall. “There’s something else.”

They pulled back slightly, but she still remained mostly in his arms, her head dropping to his shoulder and her fingers playing with the scar over his heart. Ghost pressed against their legs, avoiding the fire. “What’s that?” he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. They could just fall asleep right here and he’d die happy.

She sniffed. “A ship arrived in Volantis…filled with people from Westeros. They had basically sold themselves for a new life here.” She hiccupped. “Many were burned, Jon. I did it to them. It was me.” She began to cry. “I can never forgive myself for what I did. I can never get through it, it will always be there!”

Gods, he thought, clutching her. He shook his head, whispering. “Dany that wasn’t you.”

“I know but it doesn’t excuse it.”

“No, but you’ve learned.”

She nodded and her voice dropped. “I’ve learned because you killed me. You stopped me from doing it to more people. To your family.” 

I did, he thought. He sighed. “You’ll never be able to forgive me.” It was a fact. As much as he loved her as much as he hoped she loved him in return, she wouldn’t be able to forgive him for what he had done. Kinvara and Quaithe refused to answer him when he demanded if they could see it. It was all he wanted to know, but he resigned himself to it.

Dany pulled back slightly. “I just want to help them,” she whispered, returning to the topic of the people from Westeros. “I went mad like my father in that moment.” She frowned a little, still whispering. “The madness seems to show to the end I think.”

“You know…” He thought of when he got off that boat and walked up the sands of Dragonstone. Varys meeting him and announcing he knew his bloodline. Ignoring his refusal. She told him on the beach, before Varys arrived, that he knew this was what was going to happen. He did nothing because he agreed. Varys had sworn allegiance to her. He had denied that, he was poisoning her, and he was actively attempting to overthrow her. He frowned again. “Varys told me that he wasn’t sure what side your coin landed, but he was certain of mine.” He pushed forward, ignoring the suddenly suspicious look she was giving him. “Although sometimes I wonder if mine isn’t just still spinning too somewhere.”

She shook her head, whispering. “Ned Stark is too strong in you.” She pushed closer to him. “I had no one. Only power and revenge.” 

They sat in silence for a bit longer. The fire began to die out and he did nothing to stoke it. She kept her head on his shoulder, folded awkwardly against him, but she didn’t move. He was about to get up and go to his tent, fatigue starting to weigh on him a bit. Just enough to fall asleep for a few moon movements until he would awake, before everyone else, and go take Eddarion for an early morning ride. 

“Jon.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled, his eyes closed. She was so soft against him, he forgot how this felt. Don’t move, he thought, as she shifted a bit. He opened his eyes, sitting up straighter when she got up and moved to kneel before him. He frowned. “What are you doing?”

Her hands when to his thighs, holding him in place and her eyes were wide. “I need you promise me something.”

He leaned forward, his hands entwining in hers. “Dany, whatever it is…” he began, but she shook her head, interrupting him. 

“No, listen to me.” She took a deep breath. “Jon I need you to promise me that if I…if I ever…” She hesitated. Her eyebrows flickered. “If I ever get like that…like how I was…burning cities…you need to kill me.”

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Oh Dany…I…” he trailed off. What was he supposed to say to that? He shook his head. If he did…he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it again, it would kill him. He’d have to die too. He frowned, whispering. “And if you do it first? You always say you will.”

“Well then we’ll go together, won’t we?”

He nodded. He supposed so. She nodded and stood, but he gripped her hand again, drawing her back down to sit beside him. He didn’t want her to leave yet. She ruffled her fingers into Ghost’s head, stroking around his good ear. He smiled and reached to stroke Ghost as well. “He likes you.”

“I like him,” she murmured. She sighed. “I miss Tormund.”

He laughed. It wasn’t hard to miss him. “I do too.”

“I’m glad you have a bit of the North here with you, with Ghost.” She looked up, watching as Drogon flew overhead, likely to go out hunting. “When we were up in the North I was so…so foreign. They looked at me in a way no one ever had before.”

“Dany…”

“No, I mean….what I mean is that I could wear furs and gloves and boots, but I was always an outsider there. My dragons were the closest thing I had to comfort and reminder of the place where I was always welcome.” She looked down at Ghost, her fingers disappearing under his jaw, scratching. “And you have him here with you.”

Except unlike the North, the Dothraki had accepted him. Begrudgingly, but they had. They looked at him with disdain when he arrived, but only because he had killed their khaleesi. He had started to adopt their customs and they happily began to teach him. When she tried to adopt the Northern customs, they only sneered. And in the end, we are all the same, he thought, remembering what he’d learned in Asshai.

He smiled at Ghost. “I’m lucky to have him. All the other direwolves from his litter are gone now.”

“And in a way so are their masters,” she murmured.

I suppose so, yes, he thought, thinking of the fates of Ghost’s littermates. From what he heard Nymeria was still out there somewhere, but Arya would never have her again. His familiar had been there with him through it all. “You know when I died, he was with me in the room. Didn’t leave. Just stayed with my body.” He glanced to her, whispering. “Drogon nudged you. When you didn’t wake, he cried.”

She released a sob. He continued. “And then he burned everything he could. Everything but me. I wish he did though. He picked you up…so gently…and flew away.” He frowned. “I wondered where he took you after that. Thought maybe Dragonstone, but I heard them say there was no one there, it had been abandoned. Then there was Valyria. That’s what I thought in the end, but I guess he was smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for.” 

No one gave the dragons enough credit, he thought. The Targaryens were unique to all the families of Westeros, but they were the ones that brought us together. Everyone in Westeros had reaped what the Targaryens sowed, after Robert became King. And when he died…when it all went to shit…he wondered if they didn’t just deserve everything they got for thinking they could change it all from how it was supposed to be.

I’m tired I’m not making sense, he figured. He looked down at the heavy weight on his arm and saw that she was asleep. He moved his arm and carefully lifted her. She stirred a bit, flinching. “Don’t touch me,” she murmured.

“Just taking you to your tent,” he whispered, kissing her brow. She turned her face to his chest and Ghost trotted after them. He ducked into her tent and laid her on her pallet. She turned away and curved into her pillows. He tugged off her boots and her toes immediately curled into the silks beneath her. He loved how that was her response. She did it every time she took off her boots or slippers. Like she wanted to be grounded somehow.

He kissed her temple and lightly stroked at her curls. His gaze fell to her side, knowing what lay beneath the heavy linen of her tunic. He swallowed hard and nodded to Ghost. “Come on boy.”

Ghost just turned his head and jumped up onto the pallet, settling down next to Dany. He frowned, gesturing for the wolf to leave, but the animal merely set his head on his paws, his red eyes peering up in open defiance. He sighed, shaking his head and smiling, but he turned away and left the tent, going to his. Traitor, he thought, but he couldn’t be mad at the wolf. She needed someone in that moment and if it couldn’t be him at least it could be his familiar.

For now, he thought, reaching his fingers to brush through the fire outside his tent as he walked by, only feeling it tickle instead of hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hte reviews!
> 
> Next time: Dany and Jon talk about a past decision; Silverwing hatches her eggs.


	17. Mothers (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon discuss their daughter, which leads to an argument; Jon's king's blood has a purpose.

“_ Issa gevie riñar skorkydoso avy jorrāelan sīr_”, Dany sang, lovingly stroking the eggs that rested in the brazier. She reached in and removed one, the indigo and silver, watching as the silver coloring shimmered, moving like snakes across the indigo scales. It was so different from the others, she marveled, lifting it to the sky, as though offering to the Valyrian gods that had granted them dragons. 

Aegorax, the creator of the dragons, she thought, her eyes closing. I do not believe in gods, but if you so choose, grant me these dragons. She lowered it down, wondering what else they needed. King’s blood…queen’s blood…royal blood. Blood of the dragon. 

Hmm….

She set the egg back with its siblings into the fire in her bedroom. The other three from her journey to the Shadowlands were in the dragon tower, tended by the others. She wondered when Silverwing’s clutch would birth, the beautiful dragon still tending to them and nuzzling them. Drogon kindly brought her kills for her meals, as she did not leave the nest too long. Eddarion had tried to sniff at the clutch, but received a ripped scale for the action from the protective mother. 

He flew off, irritated and it took Jon having to take a horse out into the jungles beyond the broken peninsula to coax him back, poor dear, she thought. She turned from the eggs and walked to the balcony, looking down from her tower to the others in Valyria. She smiled at her kingdom, knowing below her there were people coming from across Essos, mostly to treat with her and to learn and trade and experience the glory of the new realm.

Many would not live here, nor did she expect them too. Valyria was not like how it used to be, she would not have only nobles and lords here and many were not prepared for the harsh climate that still existed. She tapped her fingers on the stone, whispering to herself in her native tongue. “This is all mine and it is all yours,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to the gate in the distance, her children who died to brign this about. 

She saw a movement on one of the floors below, a swish of a black cloak. Ah, he’s back, she thought, pushing away. She had not really spoken with him since the evening several weeks ago in Vaes Dothrak, where she asked him to kill her again if she turned into the monster she had been before. She imagined in that moment she would likely attempt to kill him or would not even allow him that close again, but it was something she wanted to ensure was out there. 

If you try to kill me again, I will kill you, she told him several times before. He knew it. He accepted it. She walked over to her mirror and removed the dagger at her hip. She sat on a stool, staring at her reflection. Shadows beneath her eyes from the long nights pouring over accounts and letters and reports from deep into Essos; Necromancers and pyromancers and monsters that lived in the Shadow who wanted a part of her new kingdom. 

She had sallow-looking skin from not taking too much care of herself of late, despite Jon and Grey Worm pushing food and drink on her. She was ruling, she thought, cocking her head slightly at the woman who looked back at her. “Who are you,” she wondered. 

The hair was too long, she decided, lifting a curl that hung slightly below her breast. She twirled it around her finger and lifted the dagger up, slicing at the strand of hair. She smiled, looking at the lock and threw it to the ground. She began to gather and pull, slicing and hacking, watching the silver strands float and fall around her. 

The door opened without any announcement; she no longer reprimanded him, it was not like he was going to see something he had never seen before. It was also testament to the trust they had rebuilt between them. As irritating as she found that sometimes. 

“Dany what are you doing?”

“I’m cutting my hair.”

“Why?” He was without weapons and his cloak, but looked as though he had been riding. He strode over and picked up a braid she had hacked off and was draped over her knee. He stared at it in his hand for a moment, his voice quiet. “I love your long hair.”

She ignored the melancholy in his voice; probably thinking of days long ago. “I told you a long time ago. The Dothraki cut their braids in shame to show their defeat.”

“You have not lost, if anything Dany you have gained.” He pulled at a parchment from his pocket. “I wanted to bring you this. From YiTi. They plan to send someone to the Council of Essos and are pledging their full support to you in any disagreement with the necromancers of the Shadow.”

“I thought they would.”

“No you didn’t,” he chided. 

She scowled; no, she didn’t. She glared up at him. “Do you have anything else to say to me other than to critique my hair style? I cut my braids not for what I have done of late but because of what I did before. My greatest defeat.”

He gathered up the hair that she had hacked off and stuffed it into a bag with some crumpled parchment, to throw into a fire later. “Well I do not think you need to do that,” he mumbled, still looking at her as she raked her fingers through the short strands around her head. He smiled slightly. “Although you do look striking.”

She turned, arching an eyebrow and crossed her legs, well aware that the dress she wore had a slit up to her mid-thigh. He immediately glanced at it and then lifted his eyes, his pale cheeks flushing slightly. “Did you just compliment me?”

“So?”

All she did was smile. They were doing a dance of late with this. She wanted to kiss him, but turned away. She didn’t know where they stood right now. Sometimes she thought she was ready, she wanted to feel him and see if his touch was the same. See if the tongue that he always kept sheathed, preferring to use as little words as possible was still as deft and talented as it had been before. 

And then there were days where she woke up and she feared him, using her dagger almost as a comfort, reminding herself what he was capable of and how weak his mind could be and how easily he could be manipulated. Grey Worm kept her apprised of the messages he received, just in case. Westeros would have to be stupid to try to do something now, but she did not trust anyone. 

She stood, leaving him to wonder what was beneath her silk dress, and walked over to look at the three eggs in the fire. “These are different,” she murmured, kneeling again to study them. She frowned. “The others seem even more alive. I just do not think it is their time yet.”

“Maybe those ones are not meant to hatch.”

They all are meant to hatch, she thought. Every single dragon egg there was. It was just putting together the time, whether it was ready or not. She did not think they were ready yet, but these ones…these just seemed like they were waiting for something else. Someone else. 

He sat down beside her in front of the fire. “Tell me about her.”

Her eyes closed. The moment she did, she could see the little girl who was running through the waste of the Shadow. The smile on her lips and the gleam in her eye. Their child. “She had dark curls like yours,” she began. She smiled a little. “But there were silver streaks…like she was born unable to decide…she had gray eyes…like you.” She continued, feeling him move to pull her against his chest, which she did not fight. “And she was smiling…it looked like your smile but she had my face. She was gorgeous. A happy child running and knowing a secret she wanted to share.”

Their child would have been breathtaking. The world would have been hers. She would have wolves and dragons eating from her hand. She would have the childhood they never had. Parents who loved her and cherished her and would die for her. A roof over her head, a warm bed, all the toys and the food and the warmth and care in the known world. 

He gripped her tight, his head resting against hers. “I would have liked to have met her.”

“If you had known would you still have done it?” she murmured. She shook her head, still staring at the eggs in the flames. “She was a child of our relation. You clearly were upset by it. You didn’t want me that way anymore, you said so yourself. Would you still have killed me knowing there was a babe too?”

His hands were on her arms and she felt his thumbs press into her flesh, almost bruising. “Fuck no,” he said, so much conviction in his voice she did not question it. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d have loved and cherished her too. 

She thought of what Tyrion had said to her, after she had run off to save them in the North and almost died for it. “Tyrion was most upset about my ability to not have children. To have a plan in place for my succession. He thought he knew what was best, even about my body. Thought it was still his place.”

He sighed hard behind her. “There was something that would have been so easy, but I hadn’t thought about it until recently.”

“And what was that?”

“Marriage.” 

She tilted her head back, smiling up at him. “Oh? Well if that was the easiest option then no wonder they didn’t think of it.” 

“I think Davos might have, knowing him, but…”

“Would you have done it?”

“Done what?”

She turned fully in his arms. When she had begged him to keep the secret, as wrong as that might have been for him, he had been more loyal to his Stark family than to her. To what it would mean for her. She had asked him if all she was, was a queen to him and he confirmed it. She narrowed her eyes, whispering. “Would you have married me knowing that I am your aunt? After everything? You didn’t want me anymore.”

He pushed up from the floor, turning his back to her. She laughed and got to her feet next. “See! I mention it and you’re disgusted! Living in denial Jon Snow? Unable to fathom the concept? You’re a Targaryen! It is what we do! It is what all the families of Westeros do, just because Ned Stark would be against it doesn’t mean it is wrong for both of us!” 

She could see his shoulders rising and falling with each breath he took, almost heavier and heavier. She wanted to see his face. To see what he was thinking. She rolled her eyes. “Gods Jon if you’re self-pitying or whatever it is you’re doing, I don’t want to hear it. Just go away.”

And she was having such a nice day too.

He turned and the look on his face wasn’t that of the man who had pushed her away, not once but twice, after finding out their relation. It wasn’t the sad wolf, but what she loved to see in him, what she longed to see. 

A dragon.

“Gods Dany will you shut up?” he demanded.

Her eyes widened. “Shut up? You’re telling me to shut up?”

“Yes!”

A tiny smile pulled on her lips; that was probably one of the rudest things he had said to a woman. Thank gods, she thought, throwing her hands to the side. “I am a queen and you will not speak to me like that!”

“I will speak to you how I want to speak to you because you are behaving like a fool! I was conflicted before and now I’m not.” He glared at her, the dragon still pawing at the gate in a way, but not fully blowing it down in fire and fury. “I was conflicted and stupid and…and I did not realize what it was like to lose you until I did.”

She glared at him; now that was stupid. “You killed me and you should have just turned the knife on yourself after.”

“Well then we’d both be dead instead of here and yet here we are.”

Yes, here we are, she thought. Still fighting about the same old shit. She glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “So?”

“So?” he mocked back. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “So what I am saying is that while I still struggle witih…with Ned Stark I just…” 

“Does it help that the Starks had some aunts and uncles marry their nieces and nephews? Or that Sansa was supposed to marry her cousin? Because I know of them too,” she said, casually reminding him. She smirked again. “Or how about Tyrion letting his brother go free to run off with his twin sister and my enemy? Funny how he was repulsed at the knowledge of us but he was okay with that.”

“Tyrion was only concerned with his own self preservation,” Jon answered.

That was probably one of the most astute and political statements he had ever mad, she thought. He’s reminding her that he was still a king. Deep in his heart he was a ruler. A leader. She smiled a little. A dragon. She swallowed hard and took a few steps towards him. “If you wanted me Jon,” she drawled, reaching to touch her fingers to the laces at his jerkin. She tugged on them, letting them fall as she pushed by, her shoulder knocking into his. “You should have just taken me and for once stop thinking.”

It was too late now, she figured, leaving him to think about that. 

She made her way to the dragon tower, watching Drogon kick about at the top. She would have to see about having some exotic meats brought in for him from YiTi, as a bit of a celebration for all that he had helped her accomplish. She heard Jon coming up behind her, smiling at how he seemed not to be able to let her out of his sight when they were in Valyria. “You stop thinking?” she asked.

“No,” he said, coming up beside her. He stopped at the brazier with the other three eggs. He gestured to them. He was full business Jon now, she realized, not the brooding one from upstairs a moment before. “These eggs…Silverwing and Eddarion…Drogon and Rhaegal and Viserion, you said they all had fire and blood to their births.”

“Yes, but I think it is more than that,” she said. She nodded to Eddarion, who was peeking down from his nest. “Death must pay for life. Eddarion was birthed in a pyre of a master burned alive. My children were born with three lives given.” She held up her fingers, counting off. “The witch, my son, and my husband. King’s blood, even. A khal and his son.” 

“But Eddarion wasn’t king’s blood,” Jon said.

She shook her head. “No, perhaps it was. The master we killed was a Ghiscari noble. Ghiscari may not call them kings, but they were rulers in their own right. It was possible he had the blood of a Ghiscari ruler.”

“And Silverwing? Death in her case…” he trailed off. He looked up at her, realizing. “She was birthed on a volcano of death…one of the Fourteen Flames.”

“Perhaps.” Or perhaps someone died at the same time she was born, in exchange, she thought. She looked at the three eggs. Or perhaps it was different with these eggs. With the eggs of Silverwing. These ones came from the Shadow, they had been in death for centuries. She was already dead in a way, despite her beating heart. She touched the pink one. “Or perhaps it is just fire and blood. Blood of a Targaryen.”

He looked down at the eggs. He looked over at her. “Do it.” 

She knew what he was speaking of. She walked over slowly and took the dagger that he’d once put in her chest. He held out his hand over the egg, an orange and red, and she took a deep breath. The dagger sliced at his skin, the similar dark blood of hers, what coursed through their veins after returning to life, dripped onto the egg. 

The fire sparked and everything seemed to explode. She fell backwards, at the same time above them Silverwing let out a scream, almost a call. The other two also began to roar and Eddarion let out a stream of fire onto the brazier, sending them both falling backwards to the stone floor in a heap, fire and soot raging in her eyes. 

She coughed, coming to sit up and stared at the brazier. The fire was low now, as it had been before, but instead of six eggs, there were only five. “Gods,” Jon murmured, as a tiny orange face peeked over the brazier at them both. He shook his head, whispering. “It’s a dragon.”

“Yes,” she confirmed with a laugh. She got up and reached for the tiny thing. “It is a dragon.”

He stared over her shoulder. A moment passed and he offered his knuckle to the tiny creature. The little dragon opened its mouth and coughed, almost taking its first breath and then a tiny puff of smoke came out. It began to chew on his knuckle, gumming it as though a babe would its mother’s breast. She cuddled the baby to her and he ended up taking it, the small dragon closing its eyes in contentment against his chest. 

She stroked the baby dragon’s head. “As I said, no one knows much about them. Not even the books in Asshai or what we have found here. Somehow there were hundreds of dragons in the skies, maybe thousands, and we will never really know. Perhaps dragons birthed of their mother just hatch and those that have long sat waiting need something else.” 

She sighed again, breathing. “I was the only one in hundreds of years of Targaryens to birth dragons again.” She looked up at him. “I said before, we grew small with the dragons, until we were nothing and they were gone. Not for a lack of trying to bring them back of course.” She thought of her brother’s birth, of the tragedy at Summerhall. Of the king who tried to drink wildfire. The pyromancers of her father’s court. She sighed again. “And then there was the magic of the Wall, keeping out what lay beyond.”

He scratched the dragon’s chin. “I sent Sam to the Citadel to train as the Maester for Castle Black. It was all he wanted to do. I wanted him to find information on the Night King, find out how we could stop him. He could barely find what we needed, they had it under lock and key, far from even the highest of Maesters.” He met her eyes. “People are scared of what they cannot understand or control. Magic is both.”

We are magic, she thought. People were scared of us. The last two Targaryens, one killed and the other exiled. Here we are now, while they suffer. “Westeros does not deserve magic,” she breathed. She shook her head. “It is controlled by small men with small minds. Your brother may be a warg and he may be able to see beyond what is in front of him, but he scares them for it. They cannot control him.”

He nodded. His eyes closed and his brow furrowed in pain and thought. “I do not think they understand Bran or what he is…I think he does not threaten them.” 

“And when he does? What will you do?” 

The pain on his face was palpable. She lightly patted his arm. He didn’t have to say it. He would leave her and go to them. He would always choose them first and she should not have even bothered. “Dany!” he exclaimed. “Wait!”

“Do not speak,” she said, tears coming. She was disgusted with herself for having tears now. She took a deep breath, pushing them down. “You have made it clear to me many times Jon Snow that you are a Stark and you will always protect them.”

“I left them Dany!”

“And you will leave me!” She spun around on the stairs, facing him. He looked ridiculous, standing there in his black leather of the North holding a baby orange and red dragon. She dropped a couple steps so she was closer to him. She poked his chest. “You are a Stark Jon Snow, as much as I want you to be a Targaryen.”

“Dany this isn’t happening, nothing is happening right now, I am with you and I pledged myself to you!” he exclaimed. He laughed. “Arya is an assassin and Sansa is a queen and Bran is a king! What am I? Exiled! Sent away from them all for you! Here I am now, with you, in Valyria, with you, and I’m…” He held up the dragon and laughed again, his gray eyes almost manic. “I just birthed a fucking dragon!”

You did. She stared at him. Looked at the dragon. “You did,” she said. 

“Yes, I did,” he confirmed. 

She fell to the same step as him, touching the dragon lightly. It cooed and moved towards her chest. She closed her eyes. She was crazy. She just could not figure anything out. She looked up at him, almost sorry for her outburst. “I suppose…suppose we will have to cross that river when we arrive there.”

He released one hand from the dragon and cupped the back of her head. She could feel his fingers trying to tangle in whatever he could get of her shorn hair. He dropped his head against hers. She nuzzled his nose. “I am here with you and not there with them,” he murmured. “They exiled me Dany. I saved them and they sent me away.” 

That was all she was going to get for now. It was more than he would admit anyway. She nodded. He needed to keep understanding that concept. “Very well,” she murmured, pulling away before she did something she might regret. She turned and lifted her head up to the sound of Silverwing’s cries. “Something is wrong.” 

Alarmed, they both ran up the remaining stairs and emerged at Silverwing’s nest. The silver and blue was nuzzling under her and she stood, her giant wings spreading out to push out of the rook as she sat up, showing what she had beneath her. She sat back on her haunches, turning her neck and her eyes closing in contentment, nuzzling the babes that fluttered about the nest. 

Jon almost dropped the baby they had hatched a moment before. “Seven hells,” he cursed. 

“You don’t follow the Seven,” she blurted, too stunned to say anything else. 

The dragons were larger than any of the ones she had birthed herself, larger even than Drogon had been. They hopped about the nest, a blur of colors and wings. She tried to catch one, but they moved fast, as though in a game with her. There was a yellow and gold, another blue and silver, and one that was red with gold flecks. She laughed at them, covering her mouth with her hand, stunned at what she was seeing. 

Natural born dragons in the world again, she thought. She reached for Silverwing, stroking her snout. “Congratulations mother,” she whispered in Valyrian, closing her eyes and pressing her face to the iron scales. Tears dropped onto Silverwing and she curved her wing, almost embracing her. Mother to mother.

Jon set the other dragon baby down with the rest, who joined them happily, bouncing and chirping like little baby birds. He stepped back to allow Drogon to throw a massive cow carcass into the space. Silverwing roasted it and the babies immediately hopped onto the burnt meat, tearing with their tiny mouths. He shook his head in awe. “How did she know you think?”

“Know what?”

“To blow fire on them or something…have them hatch?”

Her fingers brushed over her stomach, remembering the feeling of a babe inside, and trying to ignore the hollow in her heart that she never would again. “A mother knows,” she murmured, leaning on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: _Issa gevie riñar skorkydoso avy jorrāelan sīr_= My beautiful children, how I love you so
> 
> Thanks for your reviews! Step by step for these two ;) MAJOR step in three chapters.
> 
> Next time: Dany trains the hatchlings; Jon and Dany make a discovery in the Shivering Sea.


	18. Gods, Dragons, and Family (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon make a discovery in the Shivering Sea.

“Fuck,” Jon muttered, holding up his black gambeson and frowning at the tear that Eddarion had put in it from their last ride. He sighed, tossing it aside and thinking it might be time to get rid of the thing. It had been well over five years since he had left Westeros and found her. He might consider himself Essosi now if he didn’t sweat just by standing in place. 

He opened the armoire, staring at the clothes that Dany kept stuffing inside. Or at least one of her maids. He heard a light knock at the door and didn’t say anything, knowing whoever it was would likely open the door anyway. Sure enough he heard the hinges squeak and then heard a sharp intake of breath, quickly covered by a cough. He smiled a little, turning to see Dany standing in the doorway. “Yes?” he asked.

She cocked her head a little, her eyes sweeping up and down over his shirtless figure. She wagged her finger. “Get dressed. We’re training.”

He held up the gambeson. “It’s ripped.”

“You don’t need it for this.” She paused, halfway out the door, her eyes darkening as she took him in again. He arched an eyebrow at the look she was giving. I’ve seen that look before, he thought. It was the dragon in her. She swallowed hard and then scowled. “What? Put some clothes on and brush your hair or something it’s a mess.” 

He chuckled, grabbing one of the red shirts she’d been thrusting upon him, tugging it on and not bothering to lace the neck if they were going to be fighting, especially in the heat. He went downstairs, ignoring the surprised look Grey Worm gave him. He supposed it was the red shirt instead of his somber black outfits. He emerged in the courtyard, where Dany was putting on a pair of gloves. “Gloves? It’s sweltering.”

“You’ll need them.” She pushed a black leather jerkin at him. He frowned, noticing that she didn’t have Dark Sister on her, only that fucking dagger. He was growing weary of the constant gnaw in his stomach when he saw it. A perpetual reminder of what he had done. He imaged she did it on purpose. 

Instead of questioning, he put his gloves on, following her to the dragon tower. He waited as she cooed to the hatchlings, who bumped over each other trying to get to her. Silverwing had been bringing them food and raising them, but he knew Dany was doing other things. Speaking in Valyrian, offering them food when they did something she wanted. She wore gloves to protect her skin from their little claws and teeth, but he realized his were more to protect against burns. 

At least today. 

“_Dracarys_”, she cooed to one of the hatchlings, the red with gold flecks. He simply blinked a gold eye in her direction. She sighed, holding the raw meat out to him and cooing.

He felt something at his foot and lifted up the one he’d hatched, which proceeded to bit at his fingers. Even though the gloves he could feel the teeth cut against his skin. He smiled at the hatchling. They weren’t as cute as Ghost was at their age, but they were oddly sweet. “Well, go on,” Dany said.

“Huh?”

“Tell him.”

He sighed. He actually had never given the order to Eddarion. The dragon had not used his fire to harm, only to cook his meat. His stomach twisted. He wasn’t sure if he was ready. She glared at him, her hands on her hips. “Come on then, it’s a simple order. They need to know it.”

“Why?” he mumbled. He looked over at her. “Your’e not planning on creating a dragon army are you?”

She squinted. “So what if I am?”

“Gods Dany!”

“They have to listen to me!” she exclaimed. She picked up another one of the hatchlings and he heard her say the word for fly. The hatchling flapped its wings and only managed to get a bit into the air before falling down to the ground, flapping wings again. She glared at him. “They need to know common words Jon, otherwise they could become wild and no one can control them.”

He remembered something she said often and spoke. “_Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._”

All of a sudden there seemed to be a shift in the wind.

He couldn’t explain it. The violet in her eyes darkened to indigo, practically midnight blue, and her lips parted. He felt something in his chest swell and his skin prickle. All the dragons went silent and stared at him. He stared, almost in a trance. She took a step towards him and her hands opened and closed at her sides. She repeated. “_Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor…Aegon._”

He closed his eyes at his birth name. It wasn’t something he considered as his real name, even though his mother bestowed it on him as she lay dying. Ned wisely changed it, but did he ever think that when he looked at him? With his Stark looks and his Targaryen temper? He lifted his head a little, looking down his nose at her. All he said was what she said, the mantra she lived by. The mantra she used to explain her decisions. 

A dragon is not a slave. 

“Aegon,” she breathed again, her fingers going to the untied laces at his shirt. Her fingers gripped the red silk and she brushed her lips over his. Her eyelids fluttered and his breath hitched in his throat. She quirked her lip. “Where did you learn to speak Valyrian?”

He closed his eyes, trying not to make a fucking fool of himself. He could barely think, spots of light beginning to color beneath his eyelids. He gripped at her hips, which now bumped against his. Fuck, he thought, shaking his head and crushing his lips against hers. The fire exploded between them, forcing her backwards as hse gripped his unruly curls, left free after the comment she had made earlier about his messy hair. He groaned into her mouth and she gasped as he bit her lip, smiling a little as she replied with a groan of her own, jumping up against him and forcing him to stumble back as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him. 

There was something almost feral in this particular kiss, unlike their other stolen ones. Maybe it was the dragons around them. The shedding of his Northern armor so to speak or just the heat that seemed to hang in the air around them more than it normally did. He couldn’t stop the thoughts though that began to trickle through the blinding desire. 

_Was she ready?_

_Did the dragons have to stare like that?_

_Am I ready?_

_Are we really doing this here in the stone and dirt and hay of the dragon tower?_

She broke the kiss after a second, panting and her chest rising and falling against his. “Stop, fucking, thinking,” she demanded, pushing him away in irritation. 

He groaned, digging his fingers into his hair. “Gods Dany. We’re not doing this here!”

“Well then where?” she demanded.

Not on the floor of the dragon tower. He shook his head and looked up as Eddarion flew down to grip the side of the building. Somehow he had called him, he thought. He still wasn’t sure how to work the connection between them. The connection she shared even with the hatchlings. The messed up Valyrian he could barely understand, his thick Northern accent probably preventing the dragons from even understanding what the fuck he was trying to command them. 

He shook his head and looked over at her, distracted from training the hatchlings, who were now fighting over the remains of a charred cow carcass. We need to get out of here. Clear our heads. Figure out what the hell was happening. “Let’s go,” he said, nodding towards Eddarion. 

She looked up, her arms crossed over her chest. “Go where?”

“Anywhere, let’s get out of here. No training, no ravens, no accounts, nothing.” Just stop thinking for a few moments. He looked over at Ghost, who kept his distance from the dragon tower and was sitting in the courtyard outside. He nodded to his wolf, the connection between them easy for him to tap into. The wolf seemed relieved and trotted off to lay beneath the shade of a large tree.

It didn’t take long, just enough for him to whip on a cloak and climb atop Eddarion. She called for Drogon, the great beast landing beyond the tower walls, too large to grip the side of the tower. He patted Eddarion’s spine, leaning down and whispering. “_Sōves._”

The dragon knew his broken Valyrian, but maybe even was able to think in Common Tongue for all he knew, letting out a happy cry and pushing from the tower, great wings flapping quickly to gain altitude. He wasn’t as high as Drogon already was, the great dragon’s wingspan almost five times that of little Eddarion. He leaned down, patting the dragon’s side. “Come on boy, can’t let them beat us.”

Eddarion screeched in agreement, flapping wings hard to catch up to his elder. He continued to screech, the most vocal of all the dragons, happily diving for the earth only to cut up quickly and ascend at a steep rate. Jon closed his eyes, feeling freedom he had never felt before when he was not on the back of the dragon. He wasn’t sure if it was his happiness that made Eddarion vibrate with excitement and screech as well, or if it was the dragon’s happiness that seeped into him. 

It lifted his heart and he closed his eyes, riding the high as long as he could, his gloved hands wrapped around the spines, but his knees holding on tighter to the dragon’s sides, comfortable on the beast and trusting. He could fall asleep here and probably be fine, although he was not willing to test it just yet. He opened his eyes to peer sideways at Dany, her silver hair in short little braids at the side of her head and tugged into a stubby tail at the base of her neck, still growing out from when she’d all but shaved it off. 

He could sense her peace here as well. The way she cut and dove on Drogon, the both of them almost one. This was where she was in her element. The true dragon. He peered beneath them, the rest of the world tiny and almost insignificant beneath them. 

Ages passed, the sun rising high into the sky as he dove Eddarion through the clouds, his blood racing in his ears and his smile pulling across his face as they almost hit the water of the sea, pulling up just in time for Eddarion to skim his claws and the tips of his wings on the waves, rising up again. He looked backwards and saw Drogon do the same and as they closed in on them, he could see her smile, wide on her face and her eyes alight with elation.

I just want you to be happy now, he thought, bringing Eddarion higher to pierce through the clouds. He had no idea where they were now, somewhere well beyond Valyria. They flew and flew, hours passing and night almost falling. It had been almost the entire day in the air, but he did not feel the need to touch the ground and did not think Eddarion was ready either. 

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something below. It was beginning to get quite cold, as the sun started to fall and the moon began to shine. He gestured for her to descend to the ground. It was an island, he realized, seeing the irregular land mass in the sea. They had to be north of Essos, if that was even possible, which he supposed it was, given how hard and fast they had flown since sunrise. 

He took him down, Eddarion spotting a clearing and tilting backwards, like a horse rearing back, a sensation that always had Jon wondering if he was just going to fall off like a fool, but he tightened his grip and held on as the dragon came to land, the tips of his wings digging into the ground. He hopped off, walking around to lightly stroke at the dragon’s maw. “Good boy,” he murmured, the dragon butting his head against him. “Get some rest for a moment.”

They were on an island in the middle of the sea and he realized he didn’t have Longclaw with him. He touched at his hips, eyes wide. He didn’t even have a dagger. Fuck. He looked over at Dany, who strode towards him. “I think I won,” he said. 

“Did not realize we were even racing still.” She smiled, her pale face flushed pink from the wind and high of flying. She looked voer at Drogon, grinning. “He hasn’t flown like that in awhile. I think he needed it.”

I think you needed it, he thought, tucking some stray silver hair behind her ear. He quirked a smile. “You’ve been working hard…traveling…I thought you might want a break.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. She put her hands on her hips, turning and looking around the clearing. It was quiet, sounds from the sea muffled in the trees around them. It kind of reminded him of the North, he thought, seeing some of the familiar trees there. They were far from Essos, but close enough he imaged. They could fly back and probably get to Vaes Dothrak by early morning, stay there and head back to Valyria from there. 

He walked over to one of the trees, lightly touching the flaky bark. “I used to climb trees like this as a lad,” he said, thinking back to those days. It seemed things were equally easy and hard then. He smiled sadly. “Robb was always more willing to go higher.”

She walked over, her hand resting on its favored place, over his heart. “Robb would like to see what you have become,” she whispered.

Robb would not have wanted me to be a kinslayer, Queenslayer, or oathbreaker, but he kept silent, not wanting to ruin the moment. He looked arounda gain. “What is this place?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “I don’t recall it on most of the maps, but…who knows how many islands there are scattered in the sea.” She walked away and into the forest, only the dagger for protection. Her feet stomped over branches and leaves, crunching her way through as she lightly touched a hand to a branch, a leaf, or a vine, here and there. 

He followed, watching her. She was so innocent. Her eyes wide and childlike watching the stars blink alive in the purple and orange glow of the sunset. “Do you think people live here?” he wondered.

“It didn’t seem like it from the sky.”

They emerged into another clearing, with some large boulders and stones scattered about. It could have been the wall around a home or maybe the ruins of one, he thought, kneeling to pick up one of the gray stones, his thumb brushing over a groove. It looked like what they used to make the homes in the North, he thought, scanning the area. It was big enough for a homestead. Maybe a barn or a paddock for a couple horses. Some cows and sheep.

It seemed she thought the same. “I could build a home here,” she whispered, standing before a large area of the clearing where some stones were piled every so often. She stopped in place and lifted her hands, gesturing. “A door…red like the house in Braavos.” She took a large step, as though exiting a door and pretended to close it behind her.

The movement broke his heart a little. Just a red door, that was all she wanted for a home. “And a lemon tree,” he whispered, before she oculd open her mouth. 

She turned, her lips parting a little and then allowing them to pull into a smile over her teeth. She nodded and her eyes crinkled a bit. “Yes. And a lemon tree.”

“You were happy there.” He could not say the same for Winterfell, although it was his home. He thought he might have been happy there. The Bastard of Winterfell. He had a room, but it was the smallest of them all. It was near the kitchens and not on the main level as the rest of the family. Always beneath the main family, a constant reminder of his status in that world. The only thing from Winterfell he would not mind, he thought, going to stand at the entrance to another part of the wood. 

“A godswood.”

Was she reading his mind? He turned, his cloak swishing over his shoulders. He tugged it a bit more around him to ward off the slight chill in the air now that the sun had all but disappeared. It was dark, the stars and the moon providing little by way of light. They would need to light a fire if they planned to stay longer. “Aye,” he said, nodding. He pointed to where he would put the path. “A path leading to a godswood…with a weirwood.”

She leaned against him and her arm slipped around his, but she did not take his hand. Not yet. “I thought the Winterfell godswood was beautiful, breathtaking even…I had never seen a weirwood before.”

“They did not have weirwoods in Braavos? I thought all the treligions were there.”

“No Old Gods below the North,” she confirmed. She linked her fingers with his and he lightly ran his palm against hers, smoothing their hands together as though they were molding into one. She sighed, turning to peer back at the stones. “I was happy there I think…it was all I knew at the time.” Her eyes darkened and her voice dropped. “Until Robert’s assassins found us.”

They fate that would have befallen me if not for Ned Stark. “I did not get a chance to meet him when he came to Winterfell,” he confessed. He remembered getting a glimpse at him, but as the bastard he could not be near the King of the Seven Kingdoms. It was beneath him and gods; Lady Catelyn would kill him herself if she saw. The Northern child compared to her Southern-looking children. Robert Baratheon might have thought him a trueborn, for all they knew. He sighed. “I had heard stories of course, saw him a bit during the feast…”

“Where you had to eat with the dogs,” she said, obviously disgusted.

“I was a bastard. It was my place.”

She moved to stand in front of him, the violet eyes filled with the fire of the dragon and the conqueror. They flashed again. “You are a king,” she breathed. She touched his heart again. “Aegon Targaryen. Ned Stark saved you from my fate but he gave you another.”

“It was a difficult decision, but an easy one,” he said. He made my mother a promise. Ned was faithful to his dying day, having never broken his vows to his wife and never broken the promise to his sister, but in the end it didn’t matter. 

He let go of her hand, walking to the great tree in the center of the clearing. It was not a weirwood, but it would have to do. He knelt before it and closed his eyes, placing his hand on the great root that curved out of the ground. Gods, he prayed, give me the strength to continue on in this world. To be there for her and regain her trust…forgive me, please gods just forgive me. He opened his eyes, looking up when he felt her over him. 

Her hand touched his shoulder. “I should get a godswood for you. Make one in Valyria.”

“I don’t know if I believe in them like I used to.” He stood. “After I came back from death I was different. Cold and angry and scared. There was nothing there. I died and there was nothing. Gods did not listen to me as a child, they never gave me the mother I craved or the name I wanted.” He looked down at her and then smirked. “Or maybe they did, just not the way I thought.”

She looked at the tree again and touched her hand against it. “It isn’t a weirwood, but perhaps the gods still heard you,” she whispered.

“There aren’t rules, not like with the Seven.”

“The Seven mean nothing to me,” she said. She gestured to the sky. “If I believe in any religion, I believe in the Dothraki…something of the Valyrian religion of old but…I saw nothing either. Just black and darkness and pain.”

His eyes fluttered shut, once again hurting that he had been the one to send here there. He cleared his throat. “The Old Gods watch us through the heart-trees, the weirwoods, but they are everywhere and in everything…like…inside of you.”

The moonlight glowed off her hair and seemed to light her face. Jon thought she could have resembled a goddess herself, standing there in her leathers and cloak and boots, with her shining violet eyes and her silver hair. All she needed was Dark Sister, but the dull dagger with the violent history between them was good enough to finish the image. Daenerys Targaryen the Dragon Warrior Princess, he thought, reaching his arm around to tug her to him and press his lips to hers once more.

It was different than before, less urgent and painful. They molded against each other and she snaked her arms around him beneath his cloak. I miss you, he silently thought, hoping she could hear it. Somewhere he heard the dragons cry, unsure if it was in response to their emotions, for he could feel her tears against his cheek. 

After a moment, he broke the kiss, but not before she gripped him back against her and pushed her mouth against his again, a little harder and quicker. One more. Two more…three more, he thought, unable to stop. Air was not necessary, he thought, as he pushed his hands roughly under her leather jerkin and her fingers started yanking at his vest. 

Not like this, he thought, finally tearing himself away. “I know,” she whispered. Her eyes opened, staring into him. He kissed her again. Soon, he vowed. She nodded. “Let’s go home.”

Home. Valyria was more her home than his. Vaes Dothrak had been his home for the past few years. He missed the North a bit, the snow and the cold and the Free Folk. He looked to the sky, spotting the Great Bear formation of stars. Somewhere he wondered if Tormund was also seeing the same. I need to go back there, he thought, if only to try to figure out the rest of the lies he knew he would be telling for most of his life, because he was not going to leave her again. 

He dropped his gaze back to hers. She nodded, knowing something. “You want to go home,” she said. She smiled a little. “The North.”

“Just for a bit,” he said. “See Tormund and…and send those letters…keep up the lie.”

“Do you think they are believing it?” she whispered.

Tormund had not said anything otherwise in what little he had provided back. He did not recall Tormund saying if he could read or write, but he knew a few of the Free Folk were educated enough to do so. He shook his head and then shrugged. “I don’t know Dany…doesn’t seem so…you’d have heard before me.”

Another sad smile. “You should not be surprised,” she said.

I’m sure she was happy about that. He felt defensive. Angry. “All I had was my family…this is hard for me.”

She nodded towards Eddarion, who had made his way through some of the trees, knocking them down here and there to get to the clearing and calling out, not to be ignored. “He is your family now,” she said, letting go and walking over, the ground shaking as Drogon emerged.

Jon stared as she walked to the dragon and climbed up onto the great beast, a tiny little form atop him. He smiled. “And so are you,” he whispered, walking over to get on Eddarion, and fly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews again! Sorry for the constant teases, hoping the payoff will be worth it :)
> 
> Next Time: The hatchlings get names; Dany and Kinvara speak about the Three-Eyed Raven; Jon learns an important Valyrian phrase ;)


	19. Vūjigon Issa (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon name the dragons, Dany and Kinvara talk about blocking Bran, and Jon learns a new Valyrian phrase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is Valyrian and you'll learn what it means at the end. :)

“Ouch!”

The scent of the blood from the hatchling’s bite onto Jon’s thumb immediately caught the attention of the other hatchlings, who squealed and hopped around, trying to get over to him. He sucked on the tip of his thumb, still holding the hatchling, while she tried to get the one she was holding, the red with gold flecks, to listen to her as she attempted to teach the word ‘listen.’ 

She had some ideas for the dragons, wanting some to learn to fight, others to to act as ravens, and a couple maybe to serve as watchers. Silverwing was good for that already, patrolling around Valyria when she wasn’t with her babies. “What about Dreamfyre,” she suggested, picking up the other silver and white, who appeared to be a small version of Silverwing in that regard. 

“Dreamfyre, like Rhaena Targaryen’s dragon?” he asked.

“You know your Targaryens.”

“Some of them, yeah.”

“So who was her grandfather?”

“Aegon the Conqueror.” He flashed her a smile and shrugged, still holding the one he had hatched, the orange and red, who kept trying to bite him, when it was trying to light him on fire. She arched her eyebrow, surprised in spite of herself. “Maester Luwin was big on Targaryen history. I learned.”

She smiled, choosing not to say what she was thinking, which was simply if the Northerers were so into Targaryen history and taught their lords the stories of the dragonriders, it was funny how anti-Targaryen they had been when she arrived. Nevertheless, she thought, setting down newly named Dreamfyre. 

“This one is Wildfyre,” he said, trying to stop his thumb from bleeding still.

Wildfyre, she thought with a giggle, taking the dragon from him. “Sweet Wildfyre,” she sighed. 

“I wouldn’t call him sweet.”

“Oh he’s precious,” she cooed. She stroked his head, remembering when her sons were this small. They were the sweetest things, learning how to flap their wings, cook their meat, and communicate with her. They loved her and she loved them. She would take them from their enclosure and let them sleep in her bed, where they curled at her breast like a babe would. 

These ones were not hers to cuddle, for Silverwing was their mother. She had also adopted Wildfyre, since Jon had been pretty clear that Ghost would start walking back to the North if he brought a dragon into his bed. Eddarion was also very possessive and was currently flying overhead the keep, letting out annoyed screeches every so often. She chuckled, looking at the other two that still required names. 

They were seated in a large solar, where she had installed filmy purple curtains that wafted a bit in the breeze. The dragons hopped about in their new environment, sniffing the smooth dragonstone and tearing at pieces of a chicken she had brought for them and encouraged them to cook with a lesson on the word _dracarys_. She was seated on a large pouf, a gift from one of the Magisters in Pentos, her bare feet curled beneath her and a light sleeveless dress on over a pair of trousers that she had cut at her knee for extra comfort. 

Across from her on a chaise, Jon sat with the other two dragons. “You should name one,” she said, tickling Dreamfyre beneath her chin. She nodded towards the gold and green in his arms. “I think I would like to name that one Volantys.”

“After the city?” 

“Yes. The first of the great cities in Essos and the first of the great cities to bow to my new rule. I will train him to be the protector of Volantis, his name sake.” That left one more, she figured, studying the final one from Silverwing’s clutch. The hatchling was pretty quiet, but when he snapped at his siblings, they listened and followed his guidance, even at such a young age, he was a leader, she thought. He was a pretty bronze color with shimmers of gold on his emerging spikes.

Wildfyre let out a cry and spread out his almost translucent wings, turning and screeching again at Jon. She stifled a laugh when he let out another cry and then coughed, a ball of fire spitting from his snout and landing on Jon’s boots, which immediately began smoking. Jon was enamored with the bronze and gold, not noticing. She cleared her throat. “Jon.”

“Hmm?”

“Your boots are on fire.”

“What?” He looked down and yelped, jumping to his feet and stamping them out. He glared at Wildfyre who let out a sound like a laugh and toddled off. “And I thought Eddarion was bad,” he muttered.

“So….” 

“So what?” 

“The name!” She pointed to the dragon in his arms. “I told you, the last one is yours to name.” He should consider it an honor, she thought. Years ago she would never have let him near these hatchlings. Now he was letting them crawl on him, light his boots on fire, and bestowing them with their names. 

They continued to play with the hatchlings; every so often they would exchange a look but immediately break the gaze. She wasn’t sure what had happened, but there had been a definite shift in their relationship since they found that island. Since he kissed her and admitted he wanted to go North. There had been no more talk about when he might leave or how he might get there. She knew hew as concerned the moment he landed on the shores of Westeros on a full grown dragon, his brother would find out and he’d be thrown in the Black Cells again, or beheaded for desertion.

Something tells me they wouldn’t do that, she thought, but she knew they would never let him get close enough to a position where he could decide he might want the throne. Either throne, the one in the North or whatever they used in the South. She noted he also had tossed the torn black quilted gambeson and did not wear his long-sleeved leather doublet or jerkin from the Night’s Watch, what he’d showed up in that fateful night in Vaes Dothrak. He had elected to wear more lighter shirts and doublets that hung on his shoulders, in varying shades of gray. 

And then there were days where he wore red and black, which warmed her heart, knowing he was fading away from the North and moving closer to his Targaryen heritage. One day he might call himself a dragon, she thought, but not yet. Jon Snow was still a Northerner through and through, no matter how long he remained with her in Essos. 

“Are you alright?”

She lifted her head, seeing his brow furrowed in concern. He had kept his hair pulled back into a Dothraki braid and it only served to made his gray eyes stand out more when he was worried or pleased. In this case, worried. “I’m fine, sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming a bit. 

He still held the regal bronze and gold. “I think I will name him Arrax,” he said.

Arrax, she thought, her eyes lifting to meet his. She quirked a smile. “You know your Valyrian Gods.”

“All of them,” he admitted. He smiled quickly. “One of the books at the Watch that would read…Maester Aemon gave it to me. Stories of the gods. Arrax, the ruler of the gods, law and governance.”

It fit for the dragon that seemed to order his siblings about, she thought, watching as the newly named hatching hopped off Jon’s lap and began to herd his siblings. “It works for him,” she said. She stood, dusting off her front, in case bits of charred chicken or dirt were present. She smiled politely. The talk of Maester Aemon, her great-uncle, had reminded her of something she wanted to see to. “I will be back,” she said. “Keep with the dragons.”

She skirted by him and walked away from the open solar, surprised as Ghost got up from where he had kept back from the fire and the dragons, following her. “You want to come with me?” she laughed, scratching the top of his head. His eyes fluttered closed and he pushed his head up to get more scratching. 

And then his great head tilted back and his nose pushed beneath her breast, against the stab wound. She drew a sharp intake of breath, not in pain, but shock. The great wolf’s red eyes bored into hers, somewhat questioning. She touched his head again, lightly this time. “Your father did a bad thing,” she murmured. He blinked. She nodded. “He did a bad thing a long time ago and…and I still feel pain when I look at him.”

In the courtyard, she knelt on the stone, so she was eye to eye with the beast. She ran her fingers over his face, the tips lightly brushing over his nose. I feel like I’m talking to him, but not, because I can talk to you, she thought, closing her eyes and continuing to keep her hand on Ghost’s muzzle. “I wish I can get over it,” she breathed. Her voice thickened. “I want to so much…what would that make me though? Someone who just lets their murderer get away with it because I love him?”

It had been the first time she had admitted it out loud since…well since she told Sansa Stark at Winterfell, hoping the vulnerability and trust would be reciprocated. How wrong I was, she thought, those people didn’t understand love unless you shared their blood. The irony being, she shared Jon’s blood. She smiled as Ghost cocked his head a little at the admission. “I love him,” she laughed, dropping her forehead against his. It was so silly of her. Like a little girl with a childhood crush. “I hate it so much. I hate that I love him still when all I want to do is hate him.”

She licked her lips, thinking of the stolen kisses. Every so often she would just kiss him, unable to stop the desire surging through her body. Her fucking awful traitorous body that seemed to forget he was the one who stopped her heart once. He wasn’t leaving though. No matter what she did or said, he hadn’t left just yet. He vowed to be at her side and he was. 

“He’s lying to them,” she said to Ghost. Ghost had to understand that, right? He was a Stark, sort of, and he had to understand the connection between the Starks. Their infallible sense of family and honor. She continued to find it odd that it did not extend beyond anyone who shared their heritage. “He lies to them every day he is with me. The woman he killed for them. They think he’s at the Wall with you but he’s here with me. Kissing me, flying dragons with me, and…” And in a sense, he was ruling with her, she thought. He advised her. 

Jon was lying to his family. To Westeros. And he didn’t seem to have any problem with it, which was, well, it was down right astounding to her. Maybe he had changed from that stupid fool who had blown up everything in the Dragonpit when he told Cersei that he had pledged himself to the Targaryen Queen.

I have to protect him, she thought, or try to protect him. From the prying eyes of the Broken King and the whisperers of Tyrion Lannister. How though, she wondered, looking up at the sky as Drogon flew overhead, his massive form a tiny dark speck above.

As though on cue, she felt someone near, turning to see Kinvara walking towards her from one of the corridors. “Kinvara,” she greeted.

The red woman merely dropped her head in a nod. She seemed perturbed, her normally enigmatic smile a bit strained today. “Your Grace I have word from the red priests in Braavos. It seems as though the Broken King has sent a ship of weirwood saplings to plant in the city.” She paused. “If this does not concern you it should when I say that Quaithe and I believe he sees through them, much like his religion believes their gods can watch them through the faces on the weirwood.”

“Yes, we believed that,” she said. She frowned. She wanted a weirwood for Jon. He needed something for his praying, not the exotic trees and flowers of Valyria. “How do we protect against his sight, if we were to keep the trees?”

“Your Grace,” Kinvara said, eyes widening. “These are abominations to the Lord of Light!”

“They may be abominations to the Lord of Light, but remember I do not believe in your Rh’llor,” she reminded the woman. The priestess nodded, but still seemed annoyed. She smiled graciously. “Of course I thank him for bringing me back to this world and I look forward to seeing what his plan is for me, but remember there are many other religions out there in the world and I do not presume to know which gods and goddesses my people should pray to. Or not at all, if that is their choice.” Like me.

Kinvara nodded again. “Yes Your Grace, of course.” 

“Now if we can block his sight,” she said, beginning to walk back to where Kinvara came, likely the libraries. Ghost trotted behind her, a constant shadow. “Then perhaps we may be able to keep at least one tree…” she trailed off, thinking of the island. “Or at least two.”

“Your Grace he cannot see you with the presence of the dragons. His sight can extend only so far and not even ravens sent this way can be his vessel,” she said. She folded her hands in front of her, the large bell sleeves of her robes coming together as one. “However, with the weirwoods he would likely be able to see.”

“Then we need to block it, you said you could?”

“It will be difficult and I am afraid the only way we will know is…” Kinvara trailed off and looked uncertain, for once. It scared Dany a bit. She wrinkled her brow. “Well I believe if he attempts to see through them and doesn’t. So unfortunately we may never know.”

“it’s just with the faces though?”

“Yes, I believe so. The faces are necessary, according to the texts we located in Asshai.”

Jon had never said anything about needing the face. It was simply the weirwood itself. She nodded. “Very well. Do what you can to block the sight of this Three Eyed Raven…he is a greenseer, yes? Much like you can see in the flames, he can see in the trees?”

She squinted, her almost red eyes narrowing. “Well it is more than that, Your Grace. From what we have gathered, from priests and priestesses in Westeros and scholars in Asshai, he can see into the past. Review moments. He can see in the present through the warging and through the trees. He can, in some ways, see into the future, but we do not believe it is solid.” She nodded. “Much like the flames.”

That was how he knew about Jon, she thought. He could see into the past. He had to have seen Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. I wish I could see my brother, she thought idly. She nodded again. “Fine. Do what you can, we need to make sure that Jon is protected from the sight of his brother.”

“As long as he has the dragon with him, he should be okay, but we will do what we can.” Kinvara lightly touched the necklace at her neck, the ruby pulsing. “There are other ways to block magic. It may simply be a means of providing him with one.”

Dany wondered if she was referring to the necklace. In that case, she could not see Jon wearing a ruby necklace, although the image did bring a small smile to her lips. “Fine,” she said. “Do it.”

“You have done well, Your Grace.”

I guess we still aren’t done with our conversation. She turned a little to face the red woman. “Oh?”

“You must prepare for your next test.” Kinvara pointed to the dagger at her waist. Dany glanced at it and then lightly wrapped her hand around the hilt. “A much more personal test.”

I am tired of tests, she thought, her shoulders sagging. It seemed her entire life had been a series of them and she was tired. For once she wanted to go through something without having to fight and lose something or someone she loved. Or herself in the process. She gripped the dagger. “What is it then?” Perhaps it was Braavos. The final jewel of Essos she could put in her gauntlet. “Braavos?”

The dagger became the target of Kinvara’s gaze again. Red fire flashed again in her eyes and in her smile. “The dagger that ended your life is your lifeline, but it is also your protection as you move forth. You wield it like armor rather than a weapon. Trust yourself and trust your heart. Do not use the dagger as a shield.”

Kinvara bowed her head again and turned, seemingly floating off down the corridor. Dany followed the woman, shaking her head a little. She looked at Ghost, who merely stared up with the same quizzical look she was sure crossed her face. Sometimes the cryptic warnings and messages from the shadowbinders was too much for her to process. She turned, having already spoken with Kinvara now, and returned to the solar. 

She laughed as she walked towards the circle of seating on the balcony, the hatchlings hopping around Jon again. “They like you,” she teased. 

“I have been trying to come find you and take them back to the nest, but they won’t listen to me,” he huffed, trying to take one off his knee while another hopped onto his back. “Why do they like me so much?”

“It’s the blood of the dragon.”

He said nothing to her reference to his bloodline, which she expected. He was still denying it when it was plainly obvious. She picked up Arrax, calling to the other hatchlings. “_Keligon!_

“What’s that word?” Jon asked as a few of them finally stopped moving. 

“Stop,” she answered, herding the hatchlings into the large carrier. Wildfyre remained free, still tearing at Jon’s breeches. 

He pulled at Wildfyre, lifting him up and speaking. “_Kali-gone!_”

In his thick Northern accent the valyrian did not flow the way it should have, sounding more like two separate words than one. Wildfyre cocked his head and coughed, smoke puffing straight into Jon’s eyes. He closed them, coughing himself, at the same time she burst into a peal of laughter. He glared at her. “Funny?”

“Uproariously,” she said. She grinned. “For someone who likes to read and who happens to also be a Targaryen, your Valyrian is truly horrible Jon Snow.”

He laughed too. “I’m not good with languages.”

“Well you have some skills,” she said, her voice dropping. Wildfyre went into the carrier and she snapped the door shut, leaving them to bicker amongst each other and walking over to Jon. His gray eyes had darkened in that feral wolf way she found quite appealing. 

He tugged at the front of her dress, pulling her towards him a couple more steps. Prickles began to cross over her skill and she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand as she moved to him, his breath quickening with hers. He lowered his lips to her ear, whispering. “_Nyke jaelagon naejot ipradagon ao._”

The moment between them stilled. Her eyes widened and she immediately started to laugh. It was too much, she thought, covering her mouth with her hand and then falling against his chest, still laughing. He was stunned. “What did I say?” he asked. He flushed a little, fumbling. “I thought I said it right. Was it not right?”

She licked her lips and smiled. You stupid fool. “You just said ‘I want to eat you.’”

The pale pink visible on his chest, above his clipped dark beard darkened almost to red. “Oh,” he said, embarrassed. He fumbled, reaching into his pocket and taking out the parchment with the words, written out in Common Tongue. He turned it towards her. “That’s what the books said!”

His terrible handwriting aside, he was at least trying, she thought, feeling her heart leap into her throat. Tears welled, but she took a deep breath, holding them back. “You tried to learn a Valyrian phrase for me,” she whispered. She looked back up at him, holding the parchment. “Where was this years ago?”

He seemed confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled. He had been kind to her, he had loved her, and he had never really been there for her. Not when the Northerners shunned her, not when Missandei died in chains, and not when Rhaegal fell to a watery grave. It was stupid, but this…she couldn’t piece it together with the man she had fallen in love with. It was like he was different, but…he was still Jon, she thought, looking back up at him with a wavering smile. “What were you trying to say?” 

He leaned forward again and he seemed unsure. He swallowed hard. “Um…I was trying to say…” He paused and then mumbled in a stream of words so low and fast it sounded like one, but she was still able to piece it together. “I-want-to-kiss-you.”

Oh, she breathed, her throat constricting. She moved against him, lightly touching his chest with her fingertips. Her lips lifted to his ear and she closed her eyes, sensing his heartbeat quicken. "_Vūjigon issa. _"

His head pulled back just enough to look down at her. You stupid fool, she thought, still smiling. He frowned a little. “What does that mean?”

Her hands grabbed the collar of his shirt, jerking him against her and pressing her mouthag ainst his in his a bruising kiss. Or as bruising as she could make it, being considerably lighter than him, but she tried. She pushed herself against him, her tongue battling against his and lips slanting against his. Her knuckles turned white she was holding his shirt so tight. A moan escaped her when he wrapped his arms around her, his large hands warm and rough on her back through the thin silk of her dress. 

It ended only when she broke away to take a deep breath, still smiling. “It means kiss me,” she said. She kissed him again, slower and softer now. Another moment past and she brushed her nose to his, giving him one more peck before she took a full step backwards. 

As good as it made her feel. As much as her body wanted him….she took a deep breath, feeling her palms feel cold and clammy. She smiled again. “Good night Jon,” she said, moving by him and walking away to her rooms. 

Ghost followed after her, as she heard squeals from the dragons and then Jon’s loud ‘oof!’ as they tackled him after escaping from their cage. She reached for the dagger, pulling it from the belt and stared at the innoncous thing. She looked at Ghost, who was watching her as they walked. “I’m still working on it boy,” she whispered, reaching to rub his head. She hated it, but she still was working on it. “Soon.”

Real soon, she vowed, because she didn’t think she could stand much more. 

After Braavos, she thought, making that her goal. Braavos would fall and she would take him with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews! I really should be responding to each one, but I'm trying to fit in writing with work and real life and sadly don't have the time to give each one the attention it needs but thank you so much for those who are still keeping up with this story and enjoying it!
> 
> As an aside, just curious, would anyone be interested in a Modern AU with Jon/Dany? I've got an idea in my head after seeing the 'Last Christmas' trailer with Emilia Clarke and it won't go away. Just wondering if anyone read it if I put it down to a fic.
> 
> Next time: Jon watches Dany hold court; Grey Worm gives Jon some advice, a warning, and an ultimatum.
> 
> Next next time: Dany takes Braavos and takes Jon to Vaes Dothrak 
> 
> Next next next time: Rating increase. :P


	20. Ultimatums (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon watches Dany rule, receives a threat and reminder from Grey Worm, and makes an agreement with Dany.

“Your Grace….” The representative from Lys began, but immediately shut his mouth when Dany shot him a glare cold enough for him to snap his jaw shut and cast his eyes downward, ashamed for daring to interrupt or attempting to interrupt the Queen of Essos.

In the familiar shadows of the great Council Hall, a massive circular domed space at the top of one of the cliffs in Valyria, Jon moved silently around the columns. The entire space behind Dany’s chair at the head of the table was open, a subtle power move to remind the occupants of the table that she was the one who had brought back Valyria, with its eerie beauty and the volcano in the distance occasionally spewing lava down its sides. Drogon made a show of flying by every so often, reminding them of her power as well.

As did the presence of Wildfyre, the dragon perched on the arm of her chair, something of a bodyguard, screeching when he sensed subtle threats from the members of the table who were not officially part of the United Cities of Essos, but invited for their contributions to the realm and for their future involvement as members of the Cities. He knew Dany also had Grey Worm placed behind the member of the Ghiscari empire, the most vocal against the resurgence of Valyria, if only because they feared an invasion akin to the one that had almost wiped them out centuries ago.

He kept hidden, as always, wearing his black cloak over his hair, although at this point he wondered if it was even necessary. Many already knew that she had an advisor from Westeros, a mysterious man with a Valyrian sword that had a wolf pommel. She merely waved her hand at the questions. He kept close to the column behind her, his hand always on the pommel, just in case someone got ideas. 

Although it was hard to focus on her protection, what with the fascination Jon had with how she conducted the council. She sat with a straight back on her chair, nothing imposing or throne-like, a simple seat with engraved dragons on the arms. Today she wore a blood-red sleeveless vest over a black silk dress and her black trousers and boots. No crown was necessary, her hair shoulder length and pulled into a few braids twisted at the base of her neck into a tail. She wore black armored gauntlets at her wrists and a simple black leather necklace, akin to a slave collar, only it was torn down the middle, loosely hanging over her neck, a subtle reminder to the former slave masters in the council.

He smiled as she straightened again. “Now,” she said. “Before our Ghiscari friend thought to interrupt me, the matter on the table is how to treat the pirates currently invading New Ghis.” She glanced at the Ghiscari member. “You preseume to demand my assistance and my navies and yet you offer me nothing in return.”

“Your Grace as I was saying, villages are burning and while we cannot fight them off on our own, we recognize that you…” he trailed off and rose up slightly in his seat, his jaw set and teeth grit. “You provide the best option to combat these pirates.”

“And how might I do that?”

He glanced pointedly at Wildfyre. “Dragons, of course.”

Bad call, Jon thought, already sensing her reaction. He smiled a little when she stood from her seat. “You come to be begging for my dragons to stop your pirate infestation and yet you continue to turn away my advances for opened trade?” She scoffed. “You are stupid as well as ignorant. My dragons are not available tos imply burn pirates.” She arched an eyebrow. “However, if the representative from Volantis is amenable, you can have the Volantene navy to increase patrols around Ghis and stop the pirates. Any pirate captured will have to face Ghiscari justice, not dragonfire.”

The Volantene representative, a beautiful woman with vibrant purple hair and a former slave herself, nodded in acknowledgment. “Your Grace, our navies are at your disposal. I will speak with the commander of the navy and have ships sent to New Ghis at once.”

“Very well.” Dany scratched Wildfyre’s head. She turned to a man from Great Moraq. “The next matter involves the trade routes from Moraq, your routes are open for us, sending to Asshai of which I thank you. However, I hear of a plague, is this true?”

The Moraq leader nodded solemnly. “Yes Your Grace, it has near wiped out my people. Our ports are suffering as we attempt to keep ships from becoming overrun with the plague or bringing further to our shores.”

“I will send you ships of food and clean water for your people while your port is suffering and I will also send Qartheen healers,” she said.

That wouldn’t go over well, Jon already knew, watching as they began to argue over the benefit of the Qartheen, especially since the warlocks were simply known to be hallucinating fools with blue-tinged lips. He had yet to see or meet anyone from Qarth, but from what he had heard from Dany, they were an odd lot of people. He continued to watch, the entire realm arguing over solutions and problems. 

He smiled as the YiTish emperor requested a visit to Yin with her dragons, for the people there considered her almost god-like. He knew she did not care for that type of flattery, but she took it in stride, promising in broken YiTish, a new language she was absorbing quickly. I can barely muster enough Valyrian after years here and she can speak YiTish in moments, he thought darkly, but also proudly. 

She was magnificent, he thought, smiling as she quickly diffused an argument between the Myrish and Lyseni representatives. Everyone had a chance to speak, to argue and disagree, even with her. She spoke for the people, throwing out accusations that some of the magisters and the representatives did not mention, reminding them she could move in their cities like a ghost and she had the ear of the people. 

She would have been what the Seven Kingdoms needed, he thought darkly. She was what we wanted her to be. This was the woman who the people of Essos chose. With their hearts at the foremost of her thoughts. Everything Cersei Lannister or Robert Baratheon or even the Mad King wasn’t. It’s our fault, Jon thought, closing his eyes against the waves of pain. 

We turned her, we turned her mad, she had all the makings of the greatest ruler in the Known World and we just took and took and took and what else did she have to rely on? Her dragons, her pain and her anger and her darkness, the side she constantly pushed away and it exploded. What were they doing now in Westeros? She threw aside any reports she received from people trading back and forth, but she had also given orders that any trade and communication specifically with the crown in King’s Landing, although now he heard they called it Raven’s Landing, go through her specifically.

As for the North…what the fuck was Sansa doing up there, he wondered. He had her given him the reports she received and they hurt him more each time he got word. Famine, wars fighting out amongst mountain clans, and she just holed up in Winterfell. 

He remembered as a child, his father would gather them all up and they would ride as far west as Deepwood Motte and as far south as the Neck. They would go to White Harbor and to the villagers in the deep forests, listening to their issues and helping where he could. The true Warden of the North. Those days seemed like they were just parts of his imagination. 

“Your Grace, I speak on behalf of the traders of Moraq when I ask you this question.”

Jon was pulled from his memories to the portly man from Moraq who stood at his place, puffing his chest to appear taller than he was. He was draped in jewels and fancy fabrics to show his wealth. Funny, he thought, for that turned Dany off immediately. “Yes,” Dany said, nodding for him to continue.

“We hear word of a shadow that follows you from place to place and at this moment lurks deep behind you.”

He stiffened in place behind the column. They referred to him. Dany laughed, obviously fake, a subtle warning to the trader. “My shadow,” she said, pushing from her chair. On cue, Drogon flew overhead, darkening the room as he passed. “Covers cities and can blow away entire armies in one breath.”

The trader continued, undaunted. “I mean the shadow at your side in your meetings, who travels with you from place to place. Who currently lurks around the columns, not showing himself. We deserve to know who this advisor is.” He bowed, sweeping his silk robes to the side as he did. “For if you have a husband, we need to know, otherwise, I offer myself as your betrothed.”

What!? Jon turned his head a bit, staring straight at Dany’s reaction. She seemed more amused than threatened, although it certainly was a bit of a threat. He also felt his blood go cold a bit. They had never spoken of her taking a husband. He just assumed she would rule on her own, as it seemed she always would. Dany gestured for Wildfyre to fly off, the now dog-sized dragon taking off with a flap of wings to perch on one of the eaves above.

She touched her fingers to the edge of the table. “I thank you kind ser for your offer of marriage, however I will never marry.” There was a collected series of gasps around the table. She ignored them. “I will rule this continent without a man as I did before my attempt to retake the Seven Kingdoms. While I was open to marriage as a political move in my quest to take the Kingdoms, it became unnecessary for a fell in love with a man who in the end put a dagger in my heart.” 

Fuck Dany, he thought, closing his eyes tight. He never should have gone to Dragonstone. Things would have been very different otherwise. Maybe she’d be in charge in Westeros and they wouldn’t all be dying. He bit his lip to keep from sweeping out from behind the column to leave, but he would reveal himself to her council. 

She continued. “I was reborn. If I have a shadow as you so eloquently put it, it merely is to remind me to never trust again.”

He felt the wound on his heart throb. I’m so sorry, he thought again, closing his eyes tight. He heard movement beside him and turned sideways. Grey Worm was before him, hands at his back as they always were, and his face blank. He knew Grey Worm understood Common Tongue to know exactly what Dany was saying to the council. “What?” he weakly asked. 

The longtime advisor to Dany simply smiled vaguely. “We chose her. You kill her. She good for your kingdom.” He smirked. “They eat each other now. Like snakes.”

Fuck he thought, hitting his head against the column behind him. He stood a bit on the edge, the column only a few steps from the edge of the room, before it dropped straight off to the Smoking Sea below. All Grey Worm had to do was nudge him and he’d go plummeting to his death. And he wouldn’t fault the man for it. “I know,” he whispered, looking sideways. He flipped the hood of his cloak back so he could be somewhat even with the other man. “I know,” he hissed. He gripped Longclaw so tight he felt his gloves pull painfully over his knuckles. “I cannot be sorry enough. Why do you think I am here?”

Grey Worm did not respond to the question, instead, saying something that had Jon stepping back slightly. “She love you.” He smirked again. “I don’t know why. Do something.”

She loves me still? He hesitated. Why was Grey Worm doing this now? “What…” he trailed off, frowning a bit, trying to ascertain the other man’s motive. “Why tell me?”

He narrowed his eyes. He said nothing. Jon wondered if he understood him when Grey Worm finally spoke. “Missandei died.” He looked pained, the only emotion flickering over his normally stoic face. Jon felt his heart clench at the memory of the kind woman always at Dany’s side. “My love. In chain. Lion Queen killed her. You kill your love.” He pushed at his chest. “You second chance. Take it.” He tookt he dagger from his hip, using it to push slightly with the tip at Jon’s chest. “Or I kill you.”

Gods, Jon thought, closing his eyes. He couldn’t take it anymore. The council still ongoing, he needed to get out somewhere and breathe. He swept from around the column, not caring if anyone saw him, striding out of the Council Room and down the spire, hurrying over a few of the bridges and away to his rooms in Dany’s tower. He swept off the cloak, throwing it against the wall, needing to hit and punch at something. 

He was a fucking idiot. He’d ruined her chances of marriage in the Seven Kingdoms, demanding she come North and abandoning her quest for the throne. He’d killed her when his people had turned on her and she’d lost everything. He’d come to Essos and now her new people were questioning her and wanting to know about him and she’d have to lie to them, to protect him. 

And now Grey Worm, throwing down ultimatums. Do something about it or he’d kill him. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, grabbing a glass from the table and hurling it against the black stone wall. 

Ghost bared his teeth from his place on the bed, red eyes flashing in irritation. “What?” he exclaimed to the wolf. He reached up to his neck, tearing at the ties of the black leather vest. He ripped it off and then at the black jerking, still feeling smothered. He paced a bit, trying to put together what he was supposed to be doing. He glanced at Ghost again, who was still irritated with him since they had flown from Vaes Dothrak to Valyria. The leather harness he had created to fly Ghost on Eddarion had worked great, but both dragon and wolf were still furious with him. “Well sorry, but how else am I supposed to get you from place to place?”

He sank down in a chair in front of the desk, piles of books and papers scattered around on it. Dany always accused him of being a mess. He glanced at the broken glass, his bleeding knuckles, and the clothes scattered over the floor. The bed was unmade and a tray of last night’s dinner still sat in the corner. He was a mess. In all kinds of ways. 

He grabbed a Valyrian book, the strange letters and words muddling together as he tried to figure them out. He could understand some of the language, when Dany spoke it slow enough, which she never did. When she and Grey Worm started talking, he just blanked out, everything streaming together in a strange melody. He tried to write out the simple sentences she had asked him to do, but he couldn’t. 

There was a knock on the door and he looked up when it opened. “I saw you rush out of the council,” she said, closing the door behind her. She had removed her gauntlets and the leather vest, simply wearing her silk dress and trousers. “You really didn’t do much to stop the people from thinking I had a mysterious suitor.”

Maybe she was teasing, but he was not in the teasing mood. He turned in his chair, scowling. “I heard what the trader said,” he accused. 

“Oh about marriage?” It didn’t bother her. She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling into Ghost’s neck. The wolf closed his eyes in pleasure. She sighed. “I was telling the truth. I left a man who loved me the first time I was in Essos, to marry for political reasons. I felt nothing.” She looked sideways. “And I left a man in Westeros who loved me and I felt everything. I’m not willing to do either again.”

He closed his eyes, the guilt smothering any anger he felt in that moment. He looked over at her again. She was so beautiful, just sitting there with the wolf, her silver hair and his white fur practically blinding. “Dany…”

“Do not be guilty,” she ordered, shooting him a dark look. “It is boring.”

He stood and went to lean against the open arch, sitting up slightly on the wall. The curtains behind him tickled his cheek as a gust of wind blew through. In the distance and through the fog he could see one of the Fourteen Flames glowing in the dying light of the day. It was hard to get used to, but he was used to it for some reason. The melancholy of Valyria. The smoke and fog and strange tremors that occasionally shook the ground. 

It was hot, but sometimes went through periods of freezing chill as massive storms blew through the broken peninsula. It had turned somewhat into a home for him. Like Vaes Dothrak was. He had spent longer here in Essos now than he had spent collectively at the Wall. He closed his eyes, wondering if the snows were still as deep as they were. The ice as slick and see-through on the frozen lakes.

She said something in Valyrian from behind him. He thought he heard the word ‘face.’ He turned and looked over his shoulder. She was stretched out on her side now on his bed, behind Ghost, who dwarfed her. She smiled, dropping her chin to the wolf’s side, using him somewhat as a pillow. She repeated it. 

He frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said you need to stop brooding, your face might stick that way.”

To his surprise, he laughed. She smiled. He ran his tongue over his teeth and stayed in place, as she stood and walked over to the arch. Her fingers thread through his and he tugged her a step towards him, taking her other hand. “It’s always this way,” he teased. He had been the brunt of jokes for most of his life about unsmiling. Robb would also make fun. He just didn’t seem to understand what there was for him to be happy about, knowing his future. 

She tucked a stray curl behind his ear. He hadn’t taken his hair out from the messy knot he kept it in at the base of his neck when he wasn’t wearing Dothraki braids. “You were born with a frown,” she said, mocking him with an exaggerated upturn of her lips. 

“Probably.”

He looked at their joined hands, their fingers twisting around together absently. “You should have been queen,” he breathed. He closed his eyes as she moved closer to him. “I am so sorry.”

“You should be, but we’ve been over this.” She shook her head, her hand breaking from his to push against his heart. Her lips brushed his ear. “Forget it Jon.”

“I just can’t.” He looked over at her, feeling miserable again. The waves of pain and anguish and guilt and regret. “I should never have brought you North.”

She smiled sadly, but he saw in her eyes that she agreed. Or he thought he did. “I’d be Queen of the dead if you hadn’t Jon.”

He tilted his head towards hers, closing his eyes. When she moved to him, he could smell the lemons and honey from the drink she occasionally made herself in the morning with hot water. “Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly, his eyes springing open. 

“Regret what?”

“Us.” He turned his face to hers, his nose brushing her cheek. She didn’t flinch, not like how she used to. Her hand still stayed entwined with his and she moved her arm to go around his shoulders. “Me. Bringing me south.”

There was a long period of silence. She continued to play with his fingers. He watched, smiling a little at the color on her fingernails and the strange ink that she’d also put on her hand in a design of a dragon. It was from YiTi, he remembered, and the color on her nails from some of the cities even farther south, near Moraq. It suited her. The blend of all the cultures of her kingdom. “Sometimes,” she finally answered. He closed his eyes in acknowledgment. “Other times I don’t. I’m not sure.” She turned her face to him, her porcelain skin marred with the wrinkled frown on her forehead. “I just wanted someone to love me and I thought it was you and then when I started to lose everything…” Her breath hitched. “You weren’t there Jon.”

He closed his eyes tight. He was so involved in his own shit at the time. His family. The North. His heritage. It wasn’t an excuse, for someone who claimed to love her as he did. “I am so sorry,” he sobbed, reaching for her, his thumb brushing at the stray tear at the corner of her eye. “If I could be there again for you I would.” He brushed his lips over hers. She trembled beneath him and he knew he had to say it. “I love you Daenerys.” Not Dany, but Daenerys. Her true name. His true queen. He pressed his lips to hers hard and fast. “I love you.” Another kiss. “I love you so much.” 

She sobbed against him, pulling him closer and nodding as she pushed her hands beneath his shirt. “I love you too,” she cried, her shoulders shaking. She shook her head and began to tug at the laces of his breeches. “Now Jon, now.”

He nodded and kissed her again, turning and pressing her against the wall beside the archway. Her neck arched back, allowing him to kiss down the taut muscle that pulled against her collarbone, exposing more for his hot mouth. Gods, he thought, as her fingers fumbled between them. Her voice was raspy and broken as she spoke while she tried to undress. “I love you, don’t even think of hurting me again.”

Gods I swear I will not, he prayed, nodding. She began to cry, her tears hot on his face. He broke one of the frantic kisses, his shirt hanging off his shoulder and her dress pulled halfway down the side of her body. He closed his eyes, his hand on her face. Fuck. “Dany,” he whispered, shaking his head. 

She began to cry again, this time her entire body shaking as she slumped against him, her arm over his shoulder and her other using his elbow as leverage to keep her pinned to the wall. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. She clenched her fist, hitting his chest with it in frustration. “I’m just scared.”

Of course you’re scared. He idly kissed her temple. “I know.”

She nodded, her lip disappearing under her teeth for a moment. Her violet eyes wavered with unshed tears. “I’m not afraid of this,” she hissed, her hips bumping to his. He closed his eyes as blood shot straight south. He bit his lip, nodding. “I mean…I just don’t want to hurt again.” 

“I know.”

“No you don’t!” she exclaimed, pushing at him and breaking away. He closed his eyes as regret washed over him again. She spun on her heel. “I was begging you!” 

I know, he thought, seeing the image of her, the earnestness in her eyes and the fear in her voice. “I know,” he said. It was the only thing he could say. 

She continued, her words acting just like the dagger on her hip would have if it was buried in his heart. “I was begging you as I never had begged anyone in my life. I never wanted to be anyone’s queen, but I wanted to be yours! I begged you. I never begged Khal Drogo!” she exclaimed. She laughed. He wanted to fling himself off the fucking wall in that moment. “In all those moments when I wanted death, when my brother sold me and when I was humiliated and when I was dying in the Red Waste…I never begged anyone and I begged you.”

He stared across the divide. “What more can I say?” he whispered. He laughed. “You don’t deserve to be with me Dany. I love you and I will never leave you again. That is all I can do now. I can’t change the past but I would. In a moment I would.”

“You were a fucking fool,” she cried. She walked towards him and buried herself into his chest. “But you’re my fucking fool.”

I was an ignorant, Northern fool he thought. He trusted his siblings. “I never should have told them,” he whispered. 

“They betrayed you.”

Only Sansa betrayed me, but that was neither here nor there, he thought, embracing her tighter. They had a second chance. If she wanted him to journey with her on it, he would be there. He closed his eyes again, his face pressed into her hair. “You are my queen,” he whispered. He knew how that sounded to her, after all they had been through. “You are their queen and all our queen.” He kissed across her cheeks and took her lips again, lifting her clear off the ground.

I’m still a fucking fool, he thought, ignoring the way he felt and the way she molded against him. She pushed against him again and he broke the kiss, his fingertips rough on her smooth cheek. “You are a queen,” he saida gain. His hands reached to cup the back of her head, tilting her face up towards his. She nodded and he could see in her eyes that she knew where he was going. He took a deep breath, laughing. This was practically painful. “And you deserve the stars. You don’t deserve a quick fuck before we leave for Braavos.”

She nodded in agreement, kissing the inside of his wrist. “I know,” she whispered. She laughed. “But gods I want it.”

“And I don’t?” he teased. They pressed their foreheads together. Soon enough. “Take Braavos. Be a conqueror.”

“And then you’ll be mine,” she vowed, kissing him again. Gods I can’t stop, he thought. She was addicting. She tore herself away; thank gods, because he didn’t think he could. “Soon.” The passion and love in her eyes suddenly went up in a flame of anger and ferocity. The dragon was awake. “And if you change your mind Jon Snow and if you go back on this.” Her hand hovered at the dagger. She was adamant. “I will kill you.”

Gods believe me I know. “I understand.”

“I don’t think you do. I will never hurt again and I mean it.” She paused, her voice somewhat shaky, belying her emotions. “I never wanted to love another person after what you did to me. I was fine with it. Then you came back and you stupid fuck…you got back into my heart. If you break it again I will burn you and everything you ever loved,” she vowed.

I know it too, he thought, nodding. He dropped his head to hers again. “More than I would deserve,” he agreed.

“I hate you,” she said, taking his hands. She sniffed. “I hate your stupid accent. I hate your hair. I hate your Northern clothes. I hate your sword.” She began to kiss him again, mumbling against his mouth. “I hate you so much.”

I love you too, he thought, nodding. Thank gods for Ghost, who pushed between them, tearing them apart again. He glared at the wolf. “I should go,” he finally said, moving by her. He sighed. “Good night Dany.” He made a move to leave the room, but she cleared her throat, stopping him. 

“Jon.”

“What?”

“This is your room.”

Oh. Well then. She walked by him, grabbing her vest from the floor and kissing him one last time. “Tomorrow morning we leave for Braavos,” she said. She walked to the door and opened it and to her surprise, her eyes widening, Ghost trotted by him and to her. 

“Traitor,” he called.

She laughed. “He just likes me more.”

“He’s still mad about the dragon.” Jon smiled, glad that Ghost was keeping her company that evening, especially if he couldn’t. He was somewhat sure she thought the same. He leaned against the desk, smiling. “Good night Dany.”

She quirked a smile, reaching for the door and pulling it closed. “Good night Jon.”

The door shut with a loud click. He groaned, falling forward onto his bed, swearing he could still smell her scent on the sheets. It was going to be a long trip to Braavos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews!
> 
> Next time: Dany takes Braavos and takes Jon with her to Vaes Dothrak to celebrate.
> 
> Next next time: Beneath the stars, Dany and Jon finally reunite and forgive.


	21. Braavos (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany conquers Braavos; Jon and Dany take a final step in their relationship.

Drogon landed with enough force and thunder to crack the ground beneath the feet of the Golden Company, who, to their credit, barely flinched as she rose up behind the dragon’s frill, glaring down her nose at the sellsword who dared to call themselves the creation of her ancestors, after what they had agreed to with the Lannisters.

She glared at their new captain, who stepped forward in his golden armor, a white cloak similar to that of the Kingsguard. You must be foolish if you think I would trust you as one of my guards, she thought, not saying anything as Drogon opened his jaw and roared, stirring up the dust and dirt around the company. They shielded their eyes against the debris, some of them turning away. 

“Your Grace,” the captain said, falling to his knee. “My name is Doran Storm.”

“Storm?” she called. “A Stormlands bastard?” She smirked. “I have a soft spot in my heart for bastards.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jon, standing with Grey Worm and most of the Unsullied and the Dothraki behind them. He continued to wear the black cloak at her urging, hiding his face from people. It inspired a sense of fear, she had also discovered, and they listened to her, wondering who the mysterious companion to her commanders happened to be. 

His hand covered the pommel of Longclaw, a dead giveaway to his identity, to those who were aware of the White Wolf of the North. The leader of the company nodded. “Yes Your Grace, my father was a minor lord, but I take on the last name of Storm in transgression for his crime.”

“What crime is that?” she demanded. “To be born out of marriage vows? Ridiculous.” She screamed out to them all. “You are the Golden Company, founded by my ancestor Aegor Rivers! A bastard of the king! You will no longer serve in shame for your father’s actions, this is a new world and you will serve me!” She glared down at Storm. “You serve me because you want to serve me, not for coin or for promises of castles and riches. I do not pay my armies in anything but glory for their cause!”

She felt her heart thudding and the blood rushing through her body as she straddled the back of Drogon, her hands digging around his spines. This was where she was meant to be, she thought, seeing Braavos in the distance. Atop the large hill where she had met the company with her armies, they would march in and she would demand the fealty of the Sealord. She scanned the Company and settled her gaze back onto their leader. “Your former commander made a grave mistake in accepting the contract of Cersei Lannister and he died for it and his men wiped out. You all are lucky you stayed behind. You will serve me because you want to serve me, I will not have you running in the middle of a fight to the next highest bidder.”

Storm smiled up at her. “Your Grace there is no higher bidder with you in Essos.”

“Or Westeros, or Ulthos, or Sothoryos,” she corrected. She was the richest ruler in the entire kingdom, maybe even the entire Known World. She climbed off of Drogon rather elegantly, her black leather coat swishing at her knees as she approached Storm. She met his eyes, which were blue, almost purple. His mother or father must have Valyrian blood, she thought, breaking his gaze and walking in front of the Company. She placed her hand on Dark Sister, drawing their attention to the legendary sword. “I am the blood of the dragon,” she said. She arched her eyebrows, switching to Valyrian, which she knew they all spoke. “I am the descendent of Visenya Targaryen, the original owner of Dark Sister, and I wield this sword in her honor and for all the Targaryens who came after her. You serve me and no one else!” She drew the sword, holding it aloft so the sun caught on the flaming hilt. “You serve fire and blood!”

They all swung their swords in the air, cheering. Her Dothraki behind her stomped the hooves of their horses and the Unsullied hit their spears into the ground. She felt the rush and closed her eyes. It was addicting. She swallowed hard, knowing she could lose herself in it. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Jon walk to join her on the other side of Drogon, a reminder of what happened when she let the addiction overtake her. 

I will not fall to madness again, she thought, still holding the sword and walking towards Jon. She reached under his cloak, meeting his gray eyes in the shadow of the cloak’s hood. In Valyrian she whispered to him. “Fire and blood,” she whispered. 

His normally blank face pulled into a tiny smile. “Fire and blood,” he whispered, grabbing her into a kiss. 

She didn’t care what the Golden Company thought of her. She returned the kiss with equal ardor, releasing some of the tension that had been building in her stomach. She broke the kiss and bit his lower lip. He didn’t let her get away with that, snagging her back and leaving her with a bruised upper lip from the force of the kiss and the nip of his teeth. Dragon, she thought, separating from him and walking towards Storm again. 

Storm glanced at Jon and then to her again. “So what they say is true, you already have a lover. Shame, I thought we could come to a bit of an agreement,” he said, grinning at her. 

He was rather comely, she thought, and maybe in another world, before Jon, she would have considered it. She smiled. “So we do have an arrangement then? You serve me.”

He nodded. “Yes Your Grace, the Golden Company is yours.” He paused. “We serve the blood of the dragon, as was our founding and as we will serve for the rest of our time.”

That wasn’t so hard, she thought, smiling wide. “Good.” She walked over to Drogon, climbing back onto him. She turned him and looked at her entire army. All the men who had stayed with her through it all. The Dothraki, who had all but been wiped out. The Unsullied, torn from their mothers and set free and who had followed her since. Now the Golden Company, once again in the service to the Targaryens. The Second Sons, even Daario still in her service, although not how he would have preferred. 

She shouted, in Common Tongue, in Dothraki, and in Valyrian, for all her men to hear her words. “You will harm no child!” she screamed. “We will shed no blood in this conquest unless they shed yours first!” 

I will not have another King’s Landing, she thought darkly, looking over at Braavos. There were millions more people there. More opportunities to lose her men. This could be the end of it all, she thought, if they decided to fight back. Braavos had no solid army, it was a Free City of trade and commerce. She patted Drogon’s back, whispering for him to fly. 

They marched into the city and she flew around, finally landing and sending him off, with Silverwing and Eddarion, all three of the full grown dragons screaming and circling. She could hear the people as she walked through the streets and over the canals. Behind her, Jon and Grey Worm and Rono followed. She had her eyes set on the Sealord’s residence. 

People called her name as she walked by. Mhysa, Dragon Queen, Daenerys…they all had different terms. She didn’t hear one that was negative. The people knew, she thought, drawing herself back as she led them through to the Sealord. She came to a stop before his residence, a huge gate blocking her. She looked up and nodded to Drogon, who released a fireball, blowing it down. 

With the gate flaming around her, she walked through and stopped in the center, as the Sealord hurried out from the residence, his guards pointing spears at her. None of them looked ready for a fight. They were ceremonial, she thought. The Sealord relied on sellswords for protecting. She had the two greatest sellsword armies in the world at her command now. 

“What do you want Dragon Queen?” he asked in broken High Valyrian. 

In fluent Braavosi, the dialect of Low Valyrian she knew he preferred, she spoke. Grey Worm and most everyone around her understood, and Jon would just have to make do, she figured. “I want you to bend the knee.”

He laughed; he was a fat man with bright blue hair and beard. He dressed somewhat like a sailor, but wore jeweled rings and chains. He gestured to his side, where a man approached. “This is my First Sword, my sworn protector. Braavos is a free city. We never bent the knee to anyone and never will.”

She pulled out Dark Sister, holding it aloft. “And this is my sworn protector.”

The First Sword stepped down. She knew of how they fought in Braavos. The water dancers, with their elegant swordplay. She was prepared to fight, but she was serious with her men. She did not want to shed blood in this conquest. She continued to hold up Dark Sister, ready in case the First Sword decided to turn this into a battle. “Braavos was a free city before their were free cities, I grant you that. There are no slaves here, but there are many religions. Many trades. Many men and women who want to live a simple life for their families.” She paused. “And you are abandoning those Braavosi ideals of which you speak. You punish the Lord of Light followers. You have destroyed the temple of the Cult of Starry Wisdom.” 

“Demon worshippers,” he announced.

She arched an eyebrow. “I would not be here had you not decide to do that. There are many free cities and regions in Essos. YiTi, Moraq, Qarth…I could name more but I do not have the time.” She grit her teeth. Come on Dany, do this. “You will join my council and my realm. You will serve House Targaryen until you can learn to care for your people and allow them the freedom of their gods and goddesses.” She swung the sword to the First Sword, who had taken a step towards her. 

Following her instruction from when they left their camp that morning, Jon stayed rooted in place with Grey Worm. His stupid sense of honor was probably strangling him and he was doing everything in his power not to lunge forward to save her. It made her smile. “The Sealord is chosen by a complex formula of magisters and rich men. The people do not decide. This will end. The people will choose their Sealord from now on. You have the choice to follow my rule or you die and the people will choose a new Sealord.” 

The Sealord was turning purple, his bulbous nose and eyes threatening to pop off his head. He sputtered. “You cannot do that!”

As if on cue, the three dragons flew over, screaming. She smiled. “I can do that. I have dragons. I have the Golden Company. I have Dothraki, Second Sons, my Unsullied, and the armies of twelve cities.” She held up her ring, glinting in the sunlight. “I have the blood of the dragon. I have been killed and reborn. I have rebuilt Valyria and the new Valyrian Freehold will include Braavos.” 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him move. As she had been speaking, she had been moving closer and closer to the Sealord, letting her voice transfix those around her. She had to give the First Sword credit for being a valiant protector, immediately reaching for her when he felt his charge threatened. I did not want to spill blood, she thought, swinging out Dark Sister, the great Valyrian steel clanging deafeningly against the blade of the First Sword.

The Braavosi protector began to dance, the complex footwork of the water dancers. She spun and arched and ducked, her sword battling against his. Her heart thudded and she hoped no one stepped in to save her, because she could do this. This was why she had Jon train her from the very beginning. He might have learned in the North and without the elegant-like training of the Braavosi, but she also had her Dothraki. 

She spun the sword up and around like an arakh, which forced the other fighter to step back in surprise, allowing her an opportunity to parry. He swung around again and she flipped sideways, snatching the dagger from her hip and letting out a cry, flinging it out to spear into his elbow, left unprotected in the loose BRaavosi armor.

The First Sword screamed in surprise and pain, falling sideways as he grabbed his sword again, lunging at her. She knocked the sword from his hand, feeling the black slice at her glove and cut into her skin. It felt like what she thought fire might have felt like, but she ignored it and flipped again, grabbing the First Sword’s arm and forcing him down as they fought with their hands. 

This was where she had an element up on him and she pinned him down, her boot heel digging into his back. “Yield,” she demanded.

“Stop!”

She turned, the Sealord staring at her in a mixed look of horror, fear, attraction, and admiration. “I have your First Sword on his knees,” she yelled, sweat dripping down from her hairline. She blew a strand of hair from her eyes, feeling it stick back onto her forehead. “Is that all you need to know that I will fight my battles myself? I don’t need someone else to do it for me.” She got up and kicked the First Sword back towards the Sealord. 

She walked by him, snatching up the dagger from his elbow, the blood staining the leather as she shoved it back into her belt. She spun Dark Sister around in her hand in the loose, casual way that she had seen Jon do with Longclaw long ago and slid the steel back into its protective sheath. “We were talking about your refusal to allow the religions to practice,” she snapped. She took a few deep breaths. She really wanted something to drink, but kept her face impassive. “Braavos has always let them have their freedom, why now?”

The Sealord sputtered again. “They’re sacrificing in the streets!”

“They have always sacrificed,” she snapped. She narrowed her eyes. “The Lord of Light, the Cult of Starry Magic, the Temple of the Moonsingers, the House of Black and White…all of them possess more than just religion and you know it.” She frowned. All of a sudden she realized the connection and the fear that was on the Sealord’s face. Her voice dropped. “Is it because they have magic?”

There were no trees in Braavos, save for the courtyards and gardens of the rich and the temples. The ship of weirwoods that had arrived there had been taken by Kinvara’s people and from what she understood, they had been burned save for the two she wanted them to keep and block. There was only one sept in Braavos for the WEsterosi. No godswood was needed because no one South of the Neck practiced.

Except for one, she thought. She looked around, gazing up at the sky, half expecting to see the raven, but she remembered what Kinvara had said. It was too far away. The magic could only stretch so far. She landed her gaze on the Sealord again. “What did they tell you?”

He swallowed hard, wringing his hands. “He said things.”

“Who?”

“The Imp.”

Of course. She smiled. I’m sure he saw things and decided to share them with the Sealord, in an effort to eradicate the others. “You have a choice,” she said. She took out Dark Sister again and pointed it to him. “You can listen to the Imp and the Maesters beyond the sea and the Broken King of Westeros. The King who may be able to use magic and see beyond, but who cannot see here no matter what they say. Or you can listen to me. The Golden Company which has long used Braavos as a refuge and which you could buy to protect you is forever in my control. The Iron Bank which grants you money and freedom of trade and finance and is giving those loans to Westeros to make you think they are still significant is also mine.” She grinned. “And Tyrion Lannister may one day be mine too.”

I don’t need to tell you what else I have, she thought, as the Sealord swept his gaze over her men and into the sky. He looked back at her and then to Jon, the only one standing out amongst the rest with his shielded face and large black cloak. “Who is your shadow?” he demanded. His eyes widened. “You have demons working for you now?”

Jon probably would take great offense at being called a demon, she thought, although it made her smile. “He is no concern of yours, but he does not like you threatening his queen.”

Jon drew Longclaw and let it hang at his side as a silent threat. She continued to smile. Maybe now they should know. She took a deep breath. “This is the White Wolf,” she announced. Eddarion screamed above, swooping low. “And he is no concern of yours other than if you harm me, you will die at his hands.”

The Sealord shifted on his little slippers. He looked back at her men. “Westeros is one of our biggest traders,” he said. 

“They used to be. They are nothing now. You are doing a disservice to your people if you think Westeros will help you one day. If you even think they know what they are doing. They killed me when I could have saved them and now what?” She scoffed. “Plagues and wars and famine. Essos is free and peaceful.”

He laughed. “And what of the word from the East? Dead walking in the Grey Waste? The bloodless men and the bonemen?”

“I have fought the Army of the Dead in Westeros, or did they not tell you that in their lies?” she snapped. She smirked. “I was on the back of a dragon and on the ground with the dead. I looked the Night King in the eye as he threatened to kill my beloved. Can the rest of Westeros say that? Can Tyrion Lannister, who cowered in the crypts with the Queen in the North say that?” She stepped towards him again. “Or the Broken King, who was the target of the Night King and who let thousands die for him while he did nothing? The one with the magic who could have at least tried? No. He didn’t. But I did.”

She continued. “I flew into King’s Landing and I killed the Lion Queen.”

“You also killed everyone else,” the Sealord fired back.

She nodded. “I did. I died for it.” She smiled again. “And now we’re back to the Lord of Light followers who you have been persecuting. They brought me back. Maybe it was for this, for something else, but I am here for the people I killed.” She took a deep breath and saw the realization dawn on him. “You are turning away the people of Westeros who seek assistance here.”

“Have you seen Braavos? We have no room here.”

What an idiotic statement to make. “Yes you do,” she snapped. “You can make room. You will join my council and become part of the United Cities of Essos.” She squinted again. “What will it be Ser Sealord? Or should I go find a new one who will listen to me?”

Drogon landed behind her, his wings spreading out and blocking the sun before he lowered them back down. His heavy breathing and enormous presence caused the temperature around them to increase. The Sealord took in the dragon and then looked back to her again and to the sword in her hands. “You would kill me yourself,” he stated.

She nodded. “They have a saying in the North I quite agree with.” She lifted the sword. “The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

“You have a Northman in your company.” He nodded towards Jon. “You called him the White Wolf. Only the Starks are called wolves.”

“He is not a Stark,” she said, truthful. 

He scowled. “What would Tyrion Lannsiter think of that I wonder, knowing a Northerner is in your company?”

“I don’t think he would care much since the North is a sovereign state. The Queen in the North might wonder, but everyone is free to come and go as they please from Westeros and as you see, many are leaving,” she said. She didn’t want them to know about Jon, but it had been years. They had their plans and their protections. Maybe it was time to at least drop a few hints. 

The Sealord continued. “I hear that Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, is actually a Targaryen.”

Her nostrils flared in irritation. “And exiled to the Wall for my murder,” she snapped. She smirked. “And if he was in my command then you should know that I can be trusted.”

“And how is that?”

“Because he killed me and I allow him to still serve me.” She was sick of this back and forth, because he was delaying the inevitable. She pointed Dark Sister at him again. “Well? What will it be? Bend the knee or bloodshed?” Beyond the walls of the Sealord’s Palace, she could hear the chanting of the people, the cheering and the yells. Braavos had no slavery and it was the First Law of Braavos, but the people still wanted her. 

Or so she hoped.

After a long, tense moment, her heart quickened when the Sealord bowed his head and moved to get to his knee. She stopped him with the tip of Dark Sister, using it to pull his head up to her. “That is all,” she said, smiling. He needed to keep some of his dignity after all. He stood and she smiled wide. “You are lucky.”

“And how is that? I just became the first Sealord to give up my Free City,” he moaned.

She smiled again. “You will fly my flag, you will have your city. You will use my coin and sit on my council, but Braavos will remain the Free City of Braavos. You simply belong to the United Cities of Essos. It really isn’t as painful as you think it will be.” 

He looked confused. “What is the difference then?”

“Because when I want you gone I will ensure you are gone.” 

“And you don’t want me gone?”

“Until you convince me you need to go,” she said. She cocked her head, laying out her terms again. “Freedom of religion. You do not let the Westerosi King to convince you any other is more important, no matter what he may claim to hold against you.” 

He nodded again. “Yes….Your Grace.”

“No blood will be shed this day. Braavos is the most populated but not the largest domain to ever be taken by a Targaryen.” She turned slightly, her eyes meeting Jon’s across the yard. “My ancestor conquered one of the most widespread, hardest, and unruly of all regions in the world without shedding a drop of blood because their ruler knew what was good for them.” She paused. “The last King of Winter, Torrhen Stark, knelt to Aegon Targaryen because he knew what was good for them.” She looked sideways at the Sealord. “And now you will also be among that company.”

She spread her arms out, shouting to her armies. “Today is a new day! Braavos is ours!” 

Everyone cheered and chanted, the Dothraki screaming their war cries and beginning to run through the streets. She hopped onto Drogon and took off, watching as Eddarion landed just long enough for Jon to hop on, leaving the stunned people of the Sealord’s Palace to watch as there was another dragonrider, something she imagined would get around quickly. 

Oh I don’t care, she thought, feeling elated that it was now hers. She flew Drogon up and down through the city, as her banners began to fall from the supporters she had established throughout the past few years. She took Drogon before the massive Colossus that guarded the port of Braavos, landing her dragon on his head and watching as someone within the statue dropped her banner from the symbol of the city. 

This is all mine, she thought, watching Silverwing and Eddarion spin around in happiness. She felt it within her soul. The cities of Essos were all hers now. There was no slavery. The people could be free and happy and healthy. She would put out more Houses of Healing, more places for them to get medicine and care. She would start schooling the children immediately. Free elections for the leaders. Trade would increase among all the cities. No more wars, she thought, thinking of the Disputed Lands between Myr and Lys. They could start to turn their attention to the rising threats from the East, from the bloodless men the Sealord had mentioned and the rumors of dead walking again. 

I just want to fly right now, she thought, taking Drogon into the sky. She flew for hours, the wind ripping at her braids. She would need to have them redone. This was a cause for a complicated braid to commemorate her victories. She let Drogon’s talons skim the water of the bay and watched as Eddarion did a twist in the sky he was so happy. She imagined Jon was not happy with that move, causing her to laugh at the image it brought to her mind.

Jon, she thought, her heart thudding in nervousness and in anticipation. This was it. She had told him after Braavos. She took Drogon beyond, feeling the sensation of another behind her. Eddarion cut in front and they went beyond Braavos to where the Dothraki camp, where she had left her horse and some of the younger men and women. 

They landed and she ran off and over to him, knocking back his cloak as he swept her into his arms, crushing his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss. She moaned into his mouth, gripping at the curls at the base of his neck, thankful for his upper body strength as he held her clear off the ground, allowing her to rise up over him and hold his face against hers as she kissed him. She broke just long enough to mumble against him. “Vaes Dothrak, it has to be there.” The hoard would join them soon enough. 

Before she could start tearing his clothes then and there, she pulled away and rushed back to Drogon. She felt like she was fire as she took off, blazing a streak through the sky in the direction of her adopted homeland. The Dothraki city was where she had found herself and it was where the people first loved her. It was the first home she ever had since she was a baby, if ever. This was where it would happen, she thought, taking Drogon down several hours later. 

She walked to her tent, feeling him striding behind her. As she walked, she pulled at the buttons of her leather coat, reaching to unbuckle the belt that held Dark Sister and the dagger. She entered her tent, glad that the dosh khaleen kept it ready for her at all times. A fire was already in the pit and she tossed the coat and the weapons onto a chair, turning in time for him to pull her by her waist and tilt her up against him as she dove her hands back into his silky curls. 

Mine, she thought, gasping as he bit her lip in an effort to keep her against him when she tried to pull back slightly, just to see into his eyes. You’re all mine. She broke away, finally taking a moment to just look at him. The gray eyes that stared back had looked into hers so many times. Each and every time she saw love. She stroked her fingers at his temple, tangling them into the curls and knocking the leather tie that held them contained free. At the same time his did the same, releasing her braids and pulling at them, before she smiled and cupped his face in her palms. “Jon,” she murmured. 

She felt loose and pliant in his arms, glad for him holding her up, otherwise she might just fall straight back. The gray turned black at the whisper of his name. His nose brushed against hers and she swayed in place for a moment, savoring it. They had always rushed. So urgent the need to feel each other and to be one. This felt different. It felt like there was something far greater between them than there ever had been before. She smiled against his lips, whispering. _“Vūjigon issa ao mittys.”_

Kiss me Jon Snow, she’d breathed to him, knowing he knew what it meant. 

He nodded and his hand curved over her cheek, angling her head against him as he stepped her back towards the bed. “_Kessa issa dāria._”, he replied, before he pushed his lips to hers again, taking her fully. 

Yes my queen, he’d said, and she smiled like a fool, her eyes fluttering shut as her fingers fumbled with the knotted laces of his jerkin, the cloak already somewhere in the sand outside. With a light cry of surprise, she fell backwards the moment her ankles hit the back of the mattress and pulled him onto the bed with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the reviews! Next chapter I'm not sure about, I don't write smut very well so it's kind of vague, but I hope you enjoy it. Will probably post it on Monday.
> 
> Next time: Jon and Dany finally reunite; Jon thinks about the future.


	22. Love (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany rediscover their love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not good with love scenes/smut stuff so I hope this isn't too terrible! (runs and hides)

It seemed like the first time, Jon thought.

They were more in charge than they had been that night on the boat, but still also unsure, trying to feel the other out and make sure this was in fact really happening. She stumbled backwards and let out a soft ‘oof’ as she fell onto the bed and he landed on top of her, smiling against her mouth. He didn’t want to crush her, so he leveraged himself up a bit onto his forearms, but she merely pulled him back against her.

The only change in their bodies from last was the stab wound under her breast. He was careful, avoiding it as long as he could until he could no longer ignore its presence, finally brushing his tongue lightly across it. She tried to hide it from his view, but pleasure won out, her body arching against him as he’d kissed away from the scar, making her forget it completely as his lips went lower and lower. 

He felt like they were the only ones in the entire world, just the two of them beneath the stars, the rest of the khalasar having disappeared somewhere else, or maybe they’d been lifted from the world and taken somewhere else. It had started fast, both of them needing to feel and touch, hands tangling with each other, trying to get off layers and layers of clothes. 

Gods why did she have on so many clothes, he wondered, ripping at the front of her dress once he’d gotten his hands around it. She climbed off the bed and then tripped, trying to get her boots off and just forgetting them, too busy trying to remove his belt, Longclaw clanging as it hit the edge of the bed and then fell onto the floor. Fuck, he thought, chucking his boot across the room, where it disappeared into a pile of clothes. “I hate these things!” she yelled, trying to rip at his other boot while his hands worked on the ridiculous laces of his breeches, cursing the offensive item. 

“Well then just take yours off!” he shouted back, catching the boot she tossed at him and hurling the offending item across the tent to join his.

She laughed and pinned him back against the pillows, refusing to let him be the one in control. Not for long, before he’d flipped her over and removed her trousers, long and slow, tossing them aside as well before he pushed her hands, which had been trying to pull him up to her for a kiss, aside. “No,” he said, pointing at her. She licked her lips, her hooded purple eyes following his as he lowered himself down and settled between her thighs. The dragon within her surged forward and she no longer was fighting him as he brushed his lips over her inner knee and then moved up. Gods I have wanted to do this for so long, he thought, finally closing his mouth over her heat and groaning when he first drew the mewls of pleasure from her lips.

The tangle of her fingers in his hair was enough for him to almost just say ‘fuck it’ and drive straight into her, gods know he wanted it; instead, he set forth in pushing her over the edge, inhaling the heady scent of her and savoring in her cries of pleasure as his tongue set to work giving her what she begged for, her hips thrusting against him and her body twisting, practically sobbing as he drove her over the edge time and time again, not giving her a chance to recover before he attacked her once more. 

Finally, as she lay weak beneath him, he rose up and pushed her thighs apart, lowering himself over her and feeling her mouth open beneath his, her nails raking up his sides. “Now,” she demanded. She laughed weakly. “Or I’ll kill you.”

He smiled against her mouth. “Like to see you try.” Any words disappeared from his mind as he saw stars, feeling her hands grip down between them. Fuck, he thought, his forehead falling to the damp crease of her neck, his mouth hot on the pulse throbbing in her neck, sucking and biting, marking her so they all knew she was his. 

Mine, he thought, hooking his arm under her knee and pushing her leg up as he drove into her. He swallowed her cries, although he could care less who heard them. He arched over her, trying to prolong it as long as possible, wanting it to never end. He couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, both of them trying to get as much of the other as they could. This was right, this was how it was supposed to be, the two of them together. Just them. 

She writhed beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust. She finally broke, the cry strangled in her throat as she arched, clamping around him and holding him in place, not a breath of air able to get between them. 

It was enough to send him tumbling over the edge, his forehead falling away from hers and his lips pressed against her shoulder. After a long moment, the two of them just staying in place, not wanting to separate, he finally rolled to the side, not wanting to crush her under his weight. He closed his eyes, lightly brushing his lips over her shoulder again and his arm draped over her breasts. 

She curved against him, her head ducking beneath his chin and her hand going to cover his heart. She slung her leg over his hip, the silk sheets tangled underneath them. They stayed entwined, not wanting it to be over. It would never be over, he vowed silently, tangling his fingers in her hair. He could see up through the hole in the top of the tent, the smoke curling into strange figures before disappearing into the midnight blue sky. 

After a long moment, she spoke first. “Do you regret it?” she murmured. 

Regret? He turned his head against hers, a lazy smile pulling on his lips. “No,” he answered. He brushed his thumb over the side of her breast, feeling her shiver and move closer. “Do you?”

A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye and she shook her head. “No, never.” He wasn’t sure if she was talking about something else or what had finally happened between them. She turned his face to hers again, her palm soft on his cheek, stroking his beard. The candlelight made her skin appear like it was on fire, the light dancing over the pale expanse. She brushed her lips to his. “I missed you.”

Gods I missed you too. Everything had shifted for good now. For forever, he thought, pulling her hand from his face and kissing the palm. He brushed his tongue over the pulse, pressing against it, marking her again. She giggled and wrapped her arm back around him, settling into the crook of his neck. He reached down and pulled a blanket over them, tucking it around her as she pressed even closer. 

He was reminded how warm she was, the fire emanating from her, as though she truly were a dragon. He stared up at the sky, remembering the names she used for the Dothraki images in the stars. She dragged her finger over his chest, making circles and images only she knew. He pointed up. “Your stars are there.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled, nodding. She reached her finger up to touch his, finding the star. “Rhaego.” 

“And Rhaegal,” he said, pointing to another that appeared green in the night. He found the yellow star that didn’t blink, pointing to it. “And Viserion.” A tear dropped onto his chest, but he ignored it, continuing. “And that one.” It was in the image she referred to as the Horse’s Mane but he knew the Free Folk called it the Crown. The brightest star in the image, he thought, his heart surging in his chest, almost breaking him entirely. “Our daughter.”

The sob was muffled, her lips pressed against his heart. She nodded and moved over him, taking his lips again. “I love you,” she breathed. 

He turned, lowering her back against the pillows, returning the aching kiss. “I love you too,” he replied. He didn’t mean to make her cry, but he wanted her to know. There was still that history between them, but he wanted to put it where it belonged. Acknowledge it, but move beyond. He rested his head against hers on the pillow, and flattened his hand on her heart, feeling it thud. 

She stared into the stars, the light shining her violet eyes to a deep purple. “She was the most beautiful baby in the world.” He wondered if she was referring to the image of their child she saw in the Shadow. Or the baby she held after delivering it after death.

He didn’t speak to her about the potential for more. Could they even have children now? They were both dead; reborn…she hadn’t said anything about it. He thought it best not to bring it up. Instead, Jon pulled her tight to his side. “I think this is a good idea,” he said. He smiled at her questioning sound. He eyed her. “The Dothraki way…celebrating like this after winning.”

She giggled, poking her finger into the center of his chest. “Hmm, you need mare’s milk as well as a good roll in the sheets to truly celebrate the Dothraki way.”

Well then. He threw back the sheets and stood, grabbing his trousers and shoving his feet into them, not bothering to lace them as he ducked out of the tent, hearing her loud laugh follow after him. He marched over to where Rono and some of the others were drinking around a fire. When had the hoard already caught up with them? Gods how long were they in there?

He reached for one of the containers of the milk, Rono stilling his hand and glaring up at him. “Where’s khaleesi?” he demanded. 

Jon smiled and shrugged, replying in his shitty Dothraki, which he honestly didn’t think was different from regular Dothraki. “In bed, she wanted something to drink.” He wiggled the container of mare’s milk for emphasis. 

After a moment, Rono burst into laughter and slapped his bare shoulder with enough force for Jon to wince in pain. The other Dothraki around the fire also laughed. Rono grinned up at him, bright white teeth against his tanned skin and dark painted eyes. “Wolf is Dothraki now!”

He simply smiled and stood, holding the container. He heard footsteps behind him and the men stilled, dropping their gazes. He turned, seeing Dany standing behind him, wearing his shirt over her trousers, which swarmed her. She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at the Dothraki. She spoke, chiding them. “Are you teasing him?” She grinned. “You know he can’t take it. Soft.”

They laughed, congratulating their khaleesi on her win. She pulled his hand, tugging him back towards her tent and took the mare’s milk from him. “Come,” she ordered. “Your khaleesi orders it.”

The other bloodriders laughed and Jon simply shrugged at their surprised looks, laughing as she pulled him back around and then pushed him into the tent. He tossed the container with the drink aside as she jumped up into his arms, looping her arms around his neck and crushing her lips to his. She broke a moment later, her fingers digging into his face. “Jon, speak Dothraki again.”

He grinned. “You like that?”

“I didn’t know I did, but yes.” 

It wasn’t like he knew much, so he just began to whisper random Dothraki words into her ear, spinning her around and falling back onto the bed.

\--

“Hmm….” Jon groaned, feeling something move behind him. He was tired. His head felt all fuzzy and his entire body ached. He swatted his hand at the offensive movement, which was pressing him farther into the pillow and sheets. He sighed, hugging the pillow in his arms tighter. “Go away Ghost.”

The movement ceased and the pressure released a bit. And then he felt something hit his head, forcing his neck back as he tried to figure what that was. He turned his face, only to be hit again with the object. It was a pillow. He grabbed the pillow and tossed it aside. Dany was straddling his hips, holding another pillow, which she moved to hit him with again. “You thought I was Ghost?” she demanded, swatting him with the pillow. She laughed. “Idiot.”

I clearly am an idiot, he thought, the memories of the night before flooding back. It explained why he felt so achy and pliable. He moved a bit, so he was lying on his back and she was still hovering over him. His hands went to the tops of her thighs, slowly moving up to grasp her hips. She arched, a smile pulling her lips from their smirk. “I’m hungry,” she whispered, leaning down and pushing her hands onto his shoulders. 

“You want food? I’ll go get some.”

“Not for that,” she breathed, snagging his mouth with hers. 

This time was different, he thought, as she dug her nails into his shoulders, leveraging herself up and then impaled herself on him, both of them crying out at the same time. She threw her head back, silver hair cascading down her back and presenting her breasts for his taking, which he gladly did, his mouth hot and fast on her skin as she bucked against him. 

Afterward they both lay akimbo on the bed, sheets and pillows and blankets everywhere. He pulled a pillow under his chin, watching her catch her breath. “When are we going back to Valyria?” he asked. He didn’t want to leave here just yet, but Ghost was likely going crazy cooped up in the castle walls.

She moved, crawling to the bottom of the bed where he was laying and curled around him, like a vine on a tree. Her finger traced around the stab wound on his heart, the crescent moon-shaped scar still dark and angry after all these years. “Not yet,” she whispered. She smiled. “I don’t want to leave this tent yet.”

They both knew when they did there would be no going back. He wondered what now, with the Sealord knowing that someone calling themselves the ‘White Wolf’ served her, a Northman no less. He was going to have to reveal himself eventually. He just liked knowing that he was the only one who knew he was here with her. He dragged his hand up and down her side. “Why did you tell the Sealord about me?”

She stilled, stopping her hand from where it had been tracing patterns over his abdomen, moving closer and closer to the edge of the sheet. She turned her face up, pillowing her chin on her arm. The candlelight danced in her eyes as she thought about his question. After a moment, she sighed. “Because I want people to know that there’s someone else to fear should they cross me.” She smirked. “You are the blood of the dragon after all.”

Sometimes it didn’t feel like he was. Other times he could look back and see exactly what she meant by that. There had always been darkness to him; he just assumed it was his upbringing in the shadows of Winterfell, unable to truly be himself. He glanced up at her, whispering as his fingers traced along her chin and down her slim neck. “Robb said it was wolf’s blood,” he whispered.

“Dragon’s blood,” she breathed, kissing his palm. She moved and rose above him, her silver hair a curtain around her face. Her breath was hot, like dragonfire as she gasped when his hands slipped beneath the sheet to her center. “Show me.” She bit his lower lip, eliciting a growl. “As your queen, I demand it.”

So he showed her. This time there were no light kisses or drawn out teasing of pleasure. It was two dragons taking from each other, without any care for the other in that moment. She shouted in Valyrian when he flung her leg up over his shoulder and slammed his hips to hers, her nails tearing at his shoulders. He smiled against her mouth, whispering. “_Issa dāria._

It was enough to send her flying over, his name a strangled cry. “Aegon.”

The nights melded into each other. They only left the tent from time to time and no one disturbed them. It seemed like they were the only ones in the world and there was nothing to bother with besides each other. He could hear the dragons above, screeching occasionally, and knew at some point he’d have to leave and go deal with Eddarion, who was likely irritated he had not been the center of attention since they left Braavos.

It reminded him of the boat, only this time they didn’t have to avoid her advisors, having him sneak out to his room from time to time, if only to give her a reprieve to pretend like they weren’t spending every waking moment together and she was still interested in the poor advice spewing from Varys and Tyrion. This time they didn’t have to care at all, because the Dothraki were happy their khaleesi was happy. 

And he knew that the moment she wasn’t, he didn’t just have to fear her blade, but theirs and he was perfectly all right with that. 

At some night, he couldn’t remember how many there had been now, while she slept lightly beside him, he found himself studying the scar he’d put on her. He dragged his finger along her rib, eliciting a soft little sound from her. He paused, waiting to see if she would wake, but she simply shifted closer to him. He held her with one arm and with the other he traced his finger over the mark. It was dark and ugly, black like his and seemed to never have healed. 

He closed his eyes, holding his breath for a moment. Gods I am sorry, he prayed, eventually opening his eyes to gaze up through the hole in the tent’s ceiling, finding the star that was their daughter’s. He wondered what she would look like; Dany had seen her in the Shadow, but he could only imagine. His hand traced down to her abdomen, taut and smooth. His fingers traced a pattern. 

Took him a moment to realize it was the dragon.

After another long while he moved his finger back up to the scar, lightly touching the black gash. He lowered his lips to it, lightly kissing. She arched against him. He rested his cheek against her ribs, closing his eyes as he hugged her to him. I’m sorry, he thought again. Her fingers began to tug at hair. “Don’t be afraid,” she murmured.

How can I not? She smiled, her violet eyes hooded with desire. He kissed the scar again and sighed against it. “Would you have ever thought this was going to happen?” he asked, nodding towards the tent entrance. “When I came here, what…seven years ago?”

It was hard to believe. Seven years with her and finally here they were. And all he had dreamed about was finding her final resting place and giving her the sword of her family. She touched her finger to the scar that crossed his left eye. “Seven years,” she murmured. She smiled again. “We hardly knew each other seven months when you were pledging yourself to me and coming to my door.”

And then it all went to shit, he thought, after those three months on the ship. He sighed and kissed the scar again, moving back up to kiss her again. “Dany,” he murmured. 

She smiled. “I used to hate that name,” she whispered. She sighed again, almost purring. Like a contented cat. Or a dragon. “But then you started calling me Dany.”

Her brother used to call her that, he remembered her saying. The one who died, somewhere near this very city. Died thinking he was a dragon and the one to be king. My uncle, he thought with a frown. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, slinging her like a blanket across his chest. “My Dany,” he mumbled, possessive of her now. He wrapped his arm around her waist for good measure.

She purred again. “_Zolka_”

Wolf, he thought, as she moved against him and began to pepper kisses along his collarbone and chest. He frowned a little, as a surge of power shot through his body, stars coloring his vision. He flipped, so she was under him. She gasped, desire pooling in his stomach as she surrendered to him. 

Or maybe a dragon, he thought, pushing all thoughts but her from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good, bad, ugly? Thank you for those continuing to stick with this story. 
> 
> Next time: A few months pass, Jon and Dany have an argument; Jon heads North.


	23. Dragon Fights (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon have a fight in the Dragon Tower which leads to some decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be smut/sex in every chapter but these kids are making up for lost time right now. ;)

_Ten Years After Death_

The bed was cold.

She didn’t like that, she thought, smoothing her hand over where Jon should have been sleeping, but found it empty and cool. She sat up, her hair tangling over her shoulders, drawing the red silk sheet up around her and gazing around her room. It was a bit of a mess from the previous night. There had been representatives from Qohor she had met with and throughout the entire affair all she had been thinking about was Jon.

Eventually she’d broken free of the blacksmiths and the artisans of Qohor, accepting a gorgeous Valyrian steel bridle for Drogon, to wear in the event she were to ride him to battle; an event she hoped she would never have to do. She had mounted the bridle in the council room, on the skull of a great dragon from the times of Old Valyria, found while they were excavating one of the other islands. 

She had named that dragon skull Aegorax, for his true name was lost to time. 

When the feast was over she had found her shadow, dragging him out from where he was lurking in the halls and taken him right then and there. They could not stop, it was like they were both mad. Maybe we are, she had thought many times over, we are Targaryens after all.

She climbed from the bed, dressed quickly and gathered up some of Jon’s clothes he left scattered everywhere, with an eyeroll at how messy he could be for someone so quiet and put together most times. The maids surely spoke amongst themselves at what a disaster her rooms looked like. She glanced at the chair in the corner, flushing a bit at how they’d broken the legs of it last night. She pushed the offending item out of the way; she’d get to it later. She tugged on a pretty dress, with cut outs on the sides and over her navel, feeling quite girly in it. She left her hair free and loose and shoved her feet into a pair of shoes with leather straps over the toes. 

She padded out of her rooms and went to search for him, eventually finding him in the Dragon Tower. She stood at the entrance to the yard out front, smiling as the hatchlings, now the size of large dogs, fluttered about. He was trying to feed them. All they did was bite at him and screech, flapping their wings. “You have to say the word,” she said, walking towards him.

He looked up, smiling. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” she said. She sighed, kneeling and reaching for Dreamfyre, who happily reached for her morning pets. She cuddled Dreamfyre, who let her for a moment before hopping off to join her clutchmates. 

He offered a piece of cooked meat to Volantys, who looked like he scowled and turned his snout up at the meat. “I don’t understand, it has to be cooked, right?” he asked. He frowned. “I cooked it.”

“They like to cook it.” She nodded towards the hunk of meat that he’d brought with him. “It isn’t charred enough. You have to say the word.” He looked uncomfortable. She frowned. You are a dragon, be a dragon, she thought. She looked at the dragons, who were watching her expectedly. “_Dracarys._” They opened their mouths and let out streams of colorful fire, turning the meat black before they started to gnaw on it.

He stood. “Guess I’ll have to remember that.”

You should already know it, but she didn’t say anything, going to loop her arm through his, walking away from the dragons and back towards the cliffs behind the tower. From here she had the best view of the gate with her immortalized sons. She thread her fingers through his and closed her eyes as he dropped a kiss to the top of her head. It had near six months since Braavos fell and she had been unable to spend one night alone, she needed him constantly.

She hated how she needed him that much, especially since sometimes she woke in terror, feeling like there was a knife in her heart again. Only to find he was fast asleep beside her and she was clutching the dagger, shocked and scared at her actions. 

They were comfortable here, comfortable in Vaes Dothrak, but she wanted something more. Something that was just for the two of them. “I want a place of my own,” she said aloud. Her eyes still fixed on the gate. She lifted her face up to the sky, wishing she could see the sun, but the clouds were too thick today. “Like that island.” That island they’d discovered; she’d tried to find it on her maps but couldn’t. She had flown back once, on Drogon, just to study it some more and all she could feel there was a sense of comfort and belonging. 

He frowned, confused. “I thought that was why you wanted to bring Valyria back.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. She sighed. “I love Valyria. This is my home…our home. I want a place that is mine though. Valyria is for all. I want a place where no one can find me. Where I can live out my days with the red door and the lemon tree like a child.” She had tried to find the house in Braavos where Ser Willem Darry took her and Viserys, but had been unable. It was just as well. She wasn’t sure what she’d have done if she had found it. She smiled. “I want something like on that island we found.”

“Then you should do it.”

“Do what?”

“Build something on that island.” He squeezed her hand. “A home.”

She lifted her face up to him, wrinkling her nose and pressing her lips up to his ear. “Well I can’t build a house myself.” She looped her hands over his neck, hugging him against her as he smiled. He was so different when he smiled. She liked it.

“I can help you,” he whispered, turning to brush his nose over hers. He kissed her and she sighed against him. He moved his feet out wider, lowering himself so he was eye to eye with her. His arms were loose around her waist and he nuzzled her nose. She closed her eyes as he moved his kisses from her lips, peppering them down her neck and to her bare shoulder, speaking between each one. “I’ll build it myself. With stone and glass and I’ll give you the red door.” And the lemon tree, he may as well have said, she thought, her eyes shutting as the kisses moved down her chest. 

She bowed back, allowing him greater access as he pushed the silk aside to expose her breasts. Fuck, she thought, her fingers pulling at his hair and wanting more. She groaned, in pleasure and frustration, somehow managing to tear his mouth away from where it was doing very wonderful things to her, and held his face in her hands, her look questioning and brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

He arched an eyebrow, along with the corner of his mouth, and slipped his hand beyond the cutout at her hip to cup her bottom, pulling her against him. She sighed in pleasure, unable to prevent herself from rocking against him. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

“No,” she mumbled, managing to tear herself from him completely. She took a full step backwards, lest she throw herself again. She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. He stood there, his shirt somewhat in disarray and his hair a mess from her fingers. He reached back and tugged the tie loose, pulling it back again. The movement distracted her and she ended up turning completely, hugging her arms to herself and peering down at the gate of Valyria. 

She spoke, her voice even and thin. “You came here with the intention of bringing my family’s sword to me. The sword you claim you saw in your dreams and you found at the Wall, years after it had been lost.” She took a deep breath. “And you found me instead. You refused to leave when I demanded it.” She glared at him, ire rising in her throat. “Sense of duty? Apology?” She shifted her weight and glared back at the gate. “I can never forgive you.”

He snorted and she turned her head, surprised at the sound. He laughed, eyebrows lifting. “You serious Dany? You can’t forgive me?” He narrowed his eyes and nodded towards her. “You were forgiving me last night with my head between your legs.”

A growl came from somewhere in her chest. His words were crude and somehow she felt her skin prickle at them. “You should let the dragon come out more often,” she said, smirking. She tossed her hair from her eyes. “Besides, that was different.”

“How is that different?”

“I don’t know!” she cried. Because it felt good, because she wanted it, because they had always been good at that part of their relationship. After all this time she still wanted him and she hated it so much. Hated how her mind struggled to understand why she still loved the man who killed her and why she still let him as close as she did. How her body yearned for him every damn moment of the day now. “I don’t understand!”

“Understand what?” he demanded.

She stormed away from him, back towards the Dragon Tower. He was right on her heels. She pushed into the tower, loud enough to startle the hatchlings, which fluttered off into the eaves. She spun around, gripping the brazier where the other eggs were glowing in the flames. Across the fire he was practically shaking from unreleased anger. Let it out, she thought, the fire dancing in his eyes, blowing the irises from gray to black. “I don’t understand,” she explained, shouting over the crackling flames. “How I want you and I hate you and I love you!”

“Well how do you think I feel?” he shouted back. He reached for the brazier and to her surprise; he grabbed the side of it and only pulled away a moment later, unaffected by the heat. Maybe he was turning into a dragon after all. He walked around the brazier as he spoke. Nay, yelled. “You were a broken murderer and I killed you and our baby and yet here I am again! With you!” He laughed, throwing his hands out. “My aunt!”

“That means nothing to me,” she snapped. 

“Well it meant something to me! Or it did, does…I don’t know!” he shouted. He spun around, his back to her and his hands going to his waist. Longclaw was gone, still up in her room probably. She groaned in frustration, but he didn’t move.

Tears fell down her face, hot in the heat of the tower. “I’m…I’ll never have children Jon.”

His shoulders slumped and he turned, his face broken and sad. “Dany…I don’t care about that. Please.”

“Well I do. I will never be able to give you what you want or what you need.” She sniffed. Her stupid body. That fucking witch. Took her child from her along with her husband. Then something happened enough for her to have another and she lost that one too. Lost her sons. All the children she had known and only one survived. She shook her head, feeling her heart sink. It was necessary. They were fooling themselves with this whole thing. “Go home Jon. Go find a wildling wife and have babies and live your days in peace. Carry on the Targaryen name somehow so we don’t die out like we should have when this place exploded the first time.” She closed her eyes around more of the tears. “All you’re doing here is waiting to see if I go mad again or risking your neck in a noose if Tyrion finds you here.”

He laughed and turned in a circle. The anger in him released as he knocked over one of the braziers, the fire sending up a stack of hay they had used to pad the hatchling’s nests. The smoke curled acrid in her nostrils but the heat did nothing as the fire rose in the corner, framing him in the orange and red, like the dragon he was pretending he wasn’t. “You think I care about that?” he demanded. “I need you! I’m a deserter and I can’t marry anyone because of those vows, not like I would anyway! Can’t I just be here with you? What does it matter if you can have children or not Dany? I will advise you and help you and be with you that is all I want right now!”

“You will never be king!”

“I don’t want to be a fucking king!” he bellowed. He laughed. “I never did, why don’t you understand that?” He seemed to talk to himself, turning a little to look at the fire behind him. “Why doesn’t anyone seem to understand that?”

They stood there, panting from the exertion of fighting and him sweating from the heat of the fire that was now dying out a bit. She felt like she was desperate, needing water like a madman in the desert. She laughed. “Because you’re mad,” she said. “Because you’re a Targaryen, that’s why.”

He turned and his chest rose and fell, straining against the shirt. He waited a second and she wondered what he was going to do. There were times she thought he was highly predictable and other times he was a mystery. Suddenly, he pointed his finger at her, ordering. “Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“Take. Your. Clothes. Off,” he ordered, punctuating each word with a tear at his clothing, sending his shirt to the fire and kicking off his boots. 

Yes, she thought with a hiss of anticipation, immediately pulling at the straps of her gown, letting it fall to the floor as he lunged for her, tackling her back against the black stone wall, hitching her legs up around his hips, which she snapped behind him, locking her ankles as he crushed his mouth to hers. The stone was cold and smooth against her back, her fingers shaking between them as she freed him from the confines of his breeches. She heard the dragons around them screaming, wondering if they sensed the urgency between them. 

For all the nights when it was long and slow and she thought she might die of anticipation, she needed moments like this, she thought, letting out a scream as he slammed into her without warning. Her eyes closed tight and she clamped around him, feeling every movement he made. His hands let go of hers and pressed against the wall on either side of her head, the only thing holding her up was his body pressing her deeper and deeper over the edge. “Aegon,” she mumbled. 

That unleashed something in him and his hands grabbed hers, lifting them above her head and the movement was enough for the shift of him inside of her to send her flying, her head hitting back against the stone and her scream caught in her throat as he secured his lips to her neck. It was almost painful as he still moved against her, the pleasure driving her insane with need and want. Please, she begged, crying out again as her vision went black once more, before she laughed as he came, slumping against her. Exhausted, muscles twitching and quivering, they both slid down the wall and onto the floor, a tangle of sweaty and sooty limbs. 

She watched Arrax and Wildfyre fly away out one of the arches, laughing. “I’ve never fucked with my dragons watching,” she murmured. 

He sighed. “What about at the waterfall?”

“Oh that’s right,” she thought. It seemed like a million years ago. She glanced at the fire in the corner, which had died to a few smoldering embers. She turned to him, finding his fingers and squeezed his hand tight. “Come on, let’s go back upstairs. I’ll forget the meetings I have and we can just lie in bed under the sky.” 

Their argument seemed like a lifetime ago as well, she thought, watching as he stood and secured his breeches. He leaned against the wall to tug on his boots, his face blank. He was thinking. She frowned, but said nothing, and adjusted her dress. They walked out together, pausing before entering the courtyard that led to the stairs spiraling to her rooms. Their rooms. She turned, frowning as he reached for her and kissed her lightly.

It was gentle, soft, and almost an apology, she thought, gasping softly as he pulled her to her toes, and his arms wrapping around her so tight, but still so gentle, she thought she might cry. There was something in this kiss there hadn’t been in the others. Almost a goodbye. No, she thought, not wanting it to end. She shook her head when he tried to pull away. No, no, no, she thought, don’t go. Don’t leave me, you’re going to leave me, I know it. 

And sure enough, when she finally had to tear herself away, if not to just breathe, he took that moment to step fully away from her. Pain crossed his face. “I’m sorry Dany,” he whispered. He swallowed hard. “I have to leave.”

She nodded. Don’t go, she thought, but she spoke a lie. “Very well.”

“I need to go North…I need to figure things.” He reached for her again and tears fell from around her closed lids as she pressed her cheek to his chest. He tilted her face back up to his, whispering, and his gray eyes earnest. “I love you Daenerys.”

What does love mean anymore, she thought. It was his duty, in a way. He had to go back to his home, his true home, and see his people. He might be the blood of the dragon, but he also had the blood of a wolf, and a wolf does not belong in Valyria, she thought, nodding. “What’s love compared to duty,” she wondered out loud. 

He cupped her face with his palm, using his thumb to wipe at her tear, but all she felt was the tears mingling with the soot from the Dragon Tower. “Duty is the death of love,” he said. He smiled. “Aemon Targaryen told me that.”

The Maester? Her great-uncle? She smiled. “He did his duty, he served the Wall.”

“I didn’t understand what he meant until I allowed my duty to overtake my love,” he whispered. He kissed her again. When he pulled back, he smiled. “I won’t do that again.”

You’ll be back, she thought, realizing what he meant. She nodded in understanding. Just go, she thought, releasing his hand as he pulled away, walking slowly away and up the stairs. She turned, needing to get as far from him as possible, to disappear into something. She went to the libraries, where Kinvara had laid out some books for her to pursue, but she couldn’t focus on the mind-numbing tales of Old Valyria. She tried to work on a letter to the Sealord, and another to the new representative in Yunkai, but nothing mattered.

The day went on slowly and finally, as the sun set against the green clouds of Valyria, everything seemed to glow. Dany walked out to the hill where Eddarion was already waiting, with a pack strapped to his back and a strange harness also attached to the front. Ghost sat beside the dragon, looking highly displeased. She watched as he got Ghost up and hefted the wolf into the harness, strapping him in. Ghost bared his teeth and snapped a few times, but resigned himself to his fate. Eddarion looked equally irritated at the new rider. 

She reached for his hands, realizing he was in all black like before. Even the crow’s collar around his neck. “I was liking you in red,” she whispered, trying to lighten the mood. It had been so long with him. Even in those days where she wanted him to disappear. To just leave and never return. This was the first time he was actually leaving and it broke her more than she ever wanted to admit. 

I am Daenerys Stormborn, I burn cities and I free slaves and here I am crying because the man I love is leaving me, she thought, hating herself for it. The same man who killed me and who I wanted to kill. She thought of the dagger burning against her side. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted, she was still scared, but right now she knew she just wanted him with her. 

He reached for her and kissed her. Gods, she cried, sobbing against him. What have I become? “Please come back,” she whispered. I will not beg. I will never beg again and I’m not begging, I’m just asking. 

He said nothing, but smiled, touching his forehead to hers. “I love you,” he whispered.

She nodded, accepting it as a silent promise. “I love you too.” After a moment, she remembered, reaching into the pocket of her pants and removing the three-headed dragon pin. She attached it to the collar of his black cloak, lightly touching the only adornment he had. Come back to me, she thought, finally tearing herself away from him.

And then Jon let go of her and climbed onto Eddarion. He gave her one last look and smile and with a whispered word, Eddarion flew off, climbing into the sky. She watched as the dark image grew smaller and smaller, until there was nothing and she still continued to stare. 

This was the first time he had left her. 

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I did that! Don't worry, Jon is in the North for one chapter.
> 
> Next time: Tormund tells tall tales; Jon visits a woodswitch and learns about the Three Eyed Raven; Jon has a vision of the future.
> 
> Next next time: Dany is overtaken with an 'illness' ;) ; Jon and Dany walk among the regular people for a time.
> 
> Next next next time: Jon realizes something different with Dany; Dany blames Jon for a new development in their relationship.


	24. The North (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon spends some time in the North and has a vision of the future.

It was colder than he remembered. 

And greener. 

Or maybe he was just softer, having spent as long as he had in the south. First, he flew Eddarion along the coast of Skagos and then up North to Thenn. The ice had melted forming large crystal clear lakes and ponds. The mountains, long covered entirely in snow, had snowcaps but most of the ground was now revealed, rivers running through valleys where glaciers used to crawl. He flew south, knowing he was protected as long as Eddarion was near, and the dragon blocking the sight of his brother. 

Although at this point he wondered what would happen if his brother did see him. He would just think he had been there all that time, if he hadn’t known about him running off to Essos in the first place. He took the dragon farther south and landed outside of a rebuilt and resettled Hardhome. 

Ghost was furious with him and had run off as soon as his feet hit the snow, back in his element. Eddarion, not a fan of the cold, lit an entire thicket on fire in an attempt to warm himself. While most of the Free Folk had seen the dragons at Winterfell, they were still an anomaly and many had requested him to let them close to the beast.

Thankfully Eddarion was kinder than Drogon and extremely needy, so throughout the first couple of months, he took children to see him, letting them pet his scales and touch his nose. The dragon was patient, even preening at the attention. 

It felt good to be back, to be in the cold air of the North, the snow crunching under his feet, and the warmth of the furs and fire around him. He still slept fitfully, even more so than ever now that his bed was empty and he didn’t have the scent of Dany to keep him company. 

He had been in the North for a few months before he made his first trip to the godswood, reminding himself what Kinvara and Dany had told him. With Eddarion flying nearby, he blocked the sight of the Three Eyed Raven. Whatever that was, whatever his brother was now. He sighed, stepping into the wood. It was as though everything went silent around him. The trees stopped swaying, the wind stopped blowing, and every step he took seemed muffled against the white trees. 

He stepped up towards the greatest of them all, with the red smiling face. Or the crying face. Ned always told him it was crying, mourning the loss of the North from the First Men and the Children of the Forest. He thought later they might have been smiling, after he heard the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the mysterious hedge knight at the Tourney of Harranhal. He wondered who that knight was and what Rhaegar Targaryen must have thought, going into the wood to find the imposter and emerging with only the shield.

That was where they met, he thought, kneeling before the tree. He looked up at the face, the red sap smiling down at him, stark contrast to the white bark. He smiled back at it. Harranhal was where his mother and his father met, where they fell in love, and then eventually they ran off and it all went to shit. So much for a love story, he thought, lifting his face up to the tree’s blood red leaves. 

“It’s been a long time,” he whispered, his hand smoothing over the large root, following it from the trunk of the tree and down to where it disappeared into the earth. He wasn’t sure what else to say beyond that. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, praying to the gods to listen to him. To help him figure a plan that worked for them both. 

He dug his fingers into the root, his nails cutting into the bark and watching the red sap leak out as though he’d scratched it to bleed. “I love her,” he whispered, lifting his face up to see Eddarion fly overhead. He sighed, a smile pulling on his lips. “I love her and I still don’t know if that’s enough.” She deserved the sun and stars, not me, he thought. 

After a long time, probably most of the day, he thought, he finally tore himself away from the tree. He stared at the face again. It just smiled back at him. Or cried. He took a deep breath and squared off at it. “If you see me…I’m talking to my brother. To Bran, not to whatever it is inside his body.” He shook his head slightly, his voice soft. “Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with this place and she just wants to live in peace.”

He turned, his cloak swishing, and walked out of the godswood. He paused, watching a raven fly away from a perch on a tree. He smirked. Maybe it was just a raven. Maybe it was just a large crow. Or maybe it was his brother. Either way, he didn’t really care. 

A few nights later, he sat with Tormund in front of a large fire, with some of the older Free Folk. He swished the ale around in his cup, having lost a bit of the taste for it after drinking the mare’s milk of the Dothraki for so long and the sweet wines of Essos. Tormund jabbed him in the stomach with his elbow. “You not thirsty Little Crow?”

“It’s not the same.”

“I’ll give you that,” Tormund laughed. He reached for his horn and offered it. “Giant’s milk!”

The smell from the horn was enough to turn his stomach and all it did was make him dump the ale. “I’ll leave you to that.”

Tormund took a giant swig of the milk from his horn. He swallowed, letting the milk dribble down his red beard as he took another swig. “More for me.” He pointed to his cloak, with the silver embroidered sigil. “See that there? House Giantsbane!” 

Whenever he got drunk, he started to talk about his experiences in Essos. All the Free Folk had heard them by now, but some of the newer members of the community would gather to listen to how Tormund slay a basilisk, a wyvern, and found a cave of mysterious jewels and artifacts. If you listened long enough and got him drunk enough, suddenly he was founding New Valyria and riding a dragon on his own. 

And he always ended it by saying he started House Giantsbane because the Dragon Queen herself gave it to him. Jon merely smiled, because in all the stories, as fantastical as they could get, depending on how much his friend drank, Dany always came out on top in the stories. She was the Dragon Queen, the Dragon Lady, Queen of Dragons, whatever the story called for. 

Like now, as he spoke, waving his hands in the air. “And then, the Little Dragon Lady comes flying out of nowhere and she picked me up and put me on the back of her dragon and I flew that giant fucker out of the North, in fact, she even let me steer the beast!” 

He frowned. “Steer?”

“Well yeah you know, she let me take the…” Tormund belched, waving his hands around to mimic reigns. Or at least, that’s what Jon thought. “The thing, to steer it.”

He cocked his head. “Pretty sure you don’t steer dragons, mate.”

“Well I did!” 

While Tormund told the story, somehow looping in how he survived a blast of dragonfire and that was why his hair was red, Jon got up from the fire and walked off to the little thatched cottage where he had been staying. He paused, glancing at the house that belonged to Mother Mole. It was built into a hollowed tree. They claimed she was a witch. She could see things in her dreams.

He turned away from his path, walking up to the door and knocking. He stepped in at the grunt of the raspy voiced old woman, finding her sitting at a small table, a candle burning and a series of leaves in front of her as she pondered them. He had to duck to fit into the tree. “Mother Mole,” he greeted her.

She said something, her gray hair hiding her face from his view, but he recognized it as the Old Tongue. It sounded similar to the words he heard in Asshai. The strange language of the shadows. Only confirming the thought that the First Men originally came from Eastern Essos. He lowered himself into a chair across from her. She looked up, one eye white and blind, and the other sharp blue, watching him carefully. She spoke, her voice reedy now. “Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the Queenslayer, the Kinslayer, the Oathbreaker and…” she trailed off, smiling around her gums, teeth missing. “The blood of the dragon, yes?”

He nodded slightly and his smile tight. “You forgot the White Wolf. They like to call me that too.”

She laughed, a bit of a cackle, and folded up her leaves, placing them into a stone bowl with a pestle. She ground up the leaves, speaking. “You are here because you need answers.”

“Yes.”

“They always come to Mother Mole for answers.”

He took off his gloves, setting them on the table. “What do you know of the Three-Eyed Raven?”

Another cackle. She dropped some more things from the piles in front of her into the bowl, grinding up the mixture. “The Three Eyed Raven is a greenseer.” She smiled in his direction, but not at him. “He is magic. Some say he is a myth, but you and I both know he is real.” 

“So what is he?”

“There was a man,” she said, talking as though she hadn’t heard him. She tipped the candle into the stone bowl, lighting the mixture on fire. Smoke curled out from it and he stared as it formed strange shapes. Or maybe it was the trick of the light. The heady scent of the strange spices and mixtures lined on the shelves. He blinked a few times and thought he saw a man in the smoke. Scarred face, silver hair, and…and purple eyes. 

He stared, transfixed, and unable to breathe. “Brynden Rivers,” he murmured.

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“He had Dark Sister. I found it at the Wall.”

“Dragons at the wall, dragons always at the wall,” she said. She pointed the pestle in his direction, laughing. “You kneelers never understand. Dragons everywhere. Always dragons. It is always the dragons.”

They survive, they always survive, he thought, thinking of the ruins of Valyria. They took their dragons and they fled to Dragonstone. They took their dragons and they conquered Westeros. And when it all seemed like they were gone again, she brought the dragons back. Then she died and then she lived. And Valyria was reborn. 

And when they thought the dragons were all gone, there I was, he thought, staring into the smoke. At the Wall. With Maester Aemon. He lifted his face to Mother Mole, who was staring at him. “Brynden Rivers deserted the Night’s Watch.” Just like me.

“Dragon dreams, wolf dreams, green dreams,” she repeated. She waved her finger. “All the same.”

Greenseer, that’s what Bran called himself. That’s what the Three-Eyed Raven was, a greenseer. Kinvara called herself a shadowbinder. So did Quaithe. It was all the same, he thought, thinking of the wolf dreams. Dany’s dragon dreams. They were all magic. They could all see things. It was just a different word for it. He looked over at her again. “Brynden Rivers was a greenseer. He was the Three-Eyed Raven.”

And now it was a Stark. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth. The Three-Eyed Raven used to be a man. Until it took over Rivers. Now it was his brother. “Can you take them out?”

“Very dangerous. Three-Eyed Raven needs someone.” She paused, thinking for a moment and then her one good eye met his. “Only the strong.”

That was Bran. Bran was strong. He survived more than we gave him credit for, he thought, nodding. He would help his brother one day. If there was a chance. In the end though, it was all the same. The being of the Old Gods used a Targaryen for years and now was using a Stark. Now they had made him King. It was all the same, he thought, pushing back from the table. “Thank you Mother Mole.” 

“A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.” 

He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder and seeing her staring straight at him. He did not question how she knew that or where she heard it. He had long given up on questioning anything in this world at this point. He walked away from her home, Maester Aemon’s words in his ear. Love in the death of duty. The way he spoke about the woman he loved, the woman he gave up for his duty. He expected himself to become a new version of Aemon on the Wall, beyond the Wall, wherever he ended up after he killed the woman he loved. 

He did his duty and it almost killed him. 

And now he was alone, up here in the North again, trying to come to terms with what was happening. What he wanted and what she wanted and what they could both have. She was alone in the South. 

_A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing._

We lose ourselves, he thought, remembering the nights he lay awake screaming for death. They said his coin had landed, whatever that was supposed to mean to him, but they said hers did too. The coins just flip, over and over again in the air with us, he thought. He may have been more Stark than Targaryen according to some people, but he still had the blood of a dragon. 

And being alone was a terrible thing.

He disappeared into his tent, falling back onto the pallet and closing his eyes, bundled beneath the furs, but instead of the blackness he preferred, he saw her, lying in front of a fire, staring at the three eggs that she kept with her always, watching the flames flicker over their jeweled shells. 

You’re not alone, he thought, closing his eyes tighter. I’m here.

\--

“You southerners need a king, we Free Folk don’t.”

They were listening to one of Tormund’s rants again about kneelers. Fucking kneelers, he said every few words. Jon could barely listen anymore. He reached for the bottle under his feet and poured more ale into Tormund’s horn. “It’s not mare’s milk, but it will do,” he said when Tormund sniffed the strange concoction in his horn. “Just drink it and shut the fuck up.”

“Little Crow is grouchy.” He poked his ribs. “You need to get into a battle. You’re getting soft.”

He rolled his eyes, but smiled. “I’ve been in plenty of battles and I’m done. No more.”

“Let me tell you,” Tormund slurred, holding his horn up and pointed to the few who were around the fire. “Those Dothraki know how to fight. I’ll battle with them any day.” He hiccupped and spilled his horn over Jon’s boots. He blinked a few times, trying to focus. “You know I fell in love with a Dothraki? She went back home. She didn’t like the North.”

He sighed, remembering one of the maids who had stowed away on the ship with him and yes, had come back to Vaes Dothrak furious at Tormund for abandoning her the moment they landed in White Harbor. “You can fall in love with a tree, Tormund.”

“Remember that big woman, what was her name?”

“Brienne.”

“I miss her,” he sighed. He sniffed. “Why! Why couldn’t I be with her!?”

This was going to go on for a while if they weren’t careful. He took the horn, dumping out whatever was in it and poured in some water, handing it back to Tormund as though nothing were the wiser. He pointed. “Look Tormund, a dragon!”

“A dragon,” his friend sighed, watching Eddarion fly overhead in lazy circles. He laughed. “This fucker gets on a dragon and flies him around! Now he has another one! What’s his name again?”

“Eddarion.”

“Long name. I’m gonna’ just call him Ed.”

“I’m sure he’d like that fine.” 

They went back and forth for some time, until the fire was dying out and it was just the two of them, and Tormund had sobered up significantly, still not realizing he was drinking water. He glanced sideways, blue eyes flashing in the firelight. “You’re brooding again.” He furrowed his thick red eyebrows into an exaggerated frown. “Haven’t seen that in a bit.” He chuckled. “She takes it out of you.”

Jon glanced sideways. “What do you mean?” Although he did know what Tormund meant. He missed Dany. She did have a way of keeping him from brooding for too long. Distracted him. One way or another. 

“You fuck her yet?”

He spit out the sip of ale he’d just taken, coughing. Tormund pounded him on the back and laughed lecherously, leering over at him. He coughed a few more times, clearing the ale from his throat and nose. “Shut up,” he finally chose to say instead of answering. 

Tormund roared, falling back and then forward, slapping his knees before he tackled him, knocking him into the snow and hitting him a few times. It took a bit of hitting back to get the giant man to finally climb off him. He offered his hand, yanking Jon out of the snow and back onto his perch in front of the fire. “Crow is blushing! Like a woman who just lost her maidenhead.”

“That went by the by a long time ago,” he confessed.

Tormund grinned, leaning over his knees again. “Don’t be a fool. I knew what you two were doing before we fought the dead. Running off the way you was to all kinds of dark corners.” He wagged his horn at him. “So did your people, think that’s what made them mad. You leave a king and come back fucking a dragon.”

He rolled his eyes. “Could you not call it that?”

“What, fucking? That’s what it is!”

“Well…yes but she’s a queen.” She’s Dany. He scowled. “She’s…she’s different. It isn’t fucking.” Well not always, he thought, his cheeks turning a bit pink. 

And that caught Tormund’s attention. He laughed again. “You’re blushing! Tell me, you thinking of her or of the dragon?”

“I’m going to unleash the dragon on you if you don’t shut up,” he threatened. He sighed. He was right though. About the people being mad at him for being with Dany. I’m sure that had a lot to do with it, he thought, shaking his head slightly. He stared into the flames. “My sister probably thought I was weak.” He paused. “Maybe I was.”

“Naw,” his friend scoffed. “You’re just in love.”

And what was the difference? He glanced sideways. “So? What’s that got to do with it?”

“She makes you stronger Jon Snow.” Tormund’s blue eyes widened, looking like chips of ice on his ruddy face. He leaned in, dead serious, and unblinking. “You are a fucking idiot for coming back here. She loves you. You love her. What the fuck are you doing Little Crow?” He slapped his shoulder and used it to push up to his feet. He looked down and grinned. “You two are gonna’ make beautiful little crow dragon babies.”

A pain struck through his heart like lightning. There would be no babies, he thought. He waited for Tormund to stumble off before he doused the fire and got to his feet. He left the village, ignoring his cottage and choosing to walk off into the cold night, somehow finding Ghost, who emerged from the woods, red eyes glowing in the moonlight. 

Guess you’re talking to me again, he figured, his fingers diving through Ghost’s fur, walking with him to the clearing where Eddarion was curled in a patch of dirt and grass, avoiding the snow at all costs. He sank down against Eddarion’s haunch, pulling his fur cloak tight around him. The silver clasp at his neck caught under his chin. He reached up, having forgotten it was there, and ran his thumb over the dragon sigil. It was like she was there with him.

Ghost curled beside him. Between the two of the beasts, he had no need for a fire, or even for shelter in the freezing night. He sat under his cloak, with a dragon for a pillow and a direwolf for a blanket, staring out into the black abyss. His head tilted back, looking at the stars. There were so many of them, he could hardly find the one he was searching for, until he saw the Crown. 

He pointed his finger up, touching the star, tears welling up in his eyes. “We didn’t give you a name,” he whispered, thinking of the baby he never knew existed. He took a deep breath, his shoulders shaking as he buried his face into his forearms. He had one chance. One chance with her and with their child and he ended it with the slip of a dagger between her ribs. 

The gods are punishing me.

Punishing me for breaking my vows to spy on the Free Folk. 

Punishing Ned for lying his entire life about me.

They took my mother from me at birth, my father before that, and the only man I knew as a father long after. He was going to tell me about my mother, he thought, remembering Ned’s last words to him. He was going to tell me that I wasn’t a bastard. After I had already taken the Night’s Watch vows. Protecting me from Robert. They killed Lyanna, because all she wanted was to love the man she wanted. 

They killed Dany, he thought. I killed her. I killed our child. And I’m being punished now. I will never have that again. She will never have that again. She can have all the kingdoms of the world and he could have her, but they couldn’t have the family they both craved.

He let out a yell of anger, loud enough for Ghost to whip his head up and Eddarion to let out a little cry, turning his head to peer at him, scared. He closed his eyes tight, feeling like such a fucking fool for everything. I left her there and here I am, still as confused as ever. I need to go back, he thought, opening his eyes. 

But he wasn’t in the North anymore. 

Where am I, he wondered, standing rooted in place. He was in a house. In a room. He stood in the corner and stared, his eyes falling on the woman who lay in the bed across from him. Sun streamed through the open window and cast her silver hair into an unreal glow around her pale face. Her hand was stroking her stomach as she lay on her side, her belly swollen heavily and resting on a pillow to cushion it. 

Dany, he thought, taking a step towards her. He stopped, hearing footsteps coming up a set of stairs beyond the door, and moved back to his place in the corner. Where was this, he wondered, staring at the beautiful image she projected. A goddess of fertility, he thought, watching her smile pull on her face and her fingers dance along her belly as she hummed a song to herself.

The door to the bedroom opened and she turned her head, beaming and reaching her hand up for…for him. 

This cannot be, Jon thought, eyes wide as he stared at himself. He had shorter hair and looked…he looked happy, he realized, staring at the smile on his face, the way his gray eyes darkened as he climbed onto the bed beside Dany. There was something in his…my hand, he realized, still trying to figure what it was he was watching. 

A dream? An image of what could have been? 

The man on the bed pulled something from behind his back, presenting it to Dany, who squealed in delight. It was a blue winter rose. The petals looked to be dripping ice and he placed it behind her ear, curving his hand over her cheek and kissing her. His hand moved from her face and rested on her stomach, both of them smiling and laughing as he kissed her navel, which had extended out due to the expanse of her stomach. 

His heart stopped. 

I could have had this, he thought. “Dany,” he murmured and stepped towards her, hand outstretched, wanting to reach for her. To touch her and see if she was real. If the baby inside of her was real. 

And then he wasn’t there anymore.

He was standing before a weirwood tree. 

How did I get here, he wondered, looking around him. He stared at the tree for a moment, blinking. He heard something make a sound in the leaves and watched as a bird flew off towards the moon. “Bran?” he whispered. 

I have to go home.

He turned from the tree, his cloak billowing out behind him as he strode towards Eddarion, waiting for him beyond the godswood. I have to go home, he thought again, starting to gather his things. 

And this was not his home anymore.

\--

Weeks later, he found himself walking up the spiral staircase, the familiar black stone under his feet. He didn’t bother knocking on the door and stepped inside the solar. Across the room, at the great desk, she sat writing out something. Her hair was in a loose braid, slung over her shoulder, and she did not even look up, too focused on whatever it was she was doing.

He walked across the room and placed his hands on the desk, finally catching her attention. She looked up, gasping in surprise. “Jon!”

“I love you,” he blurted out. He could have done that a lot smoother, he thought, but he didn’t care. He straightened up, his eyes not breaking contact with hers as she also stood, walking around the side of the desk to stand in front of him. He frowned. “I love you. You can’t make me leave. I’m not leaving. I’m here. For good this time.”

She smiled and reached her hands to smooth over the leather of his doublet. “You’re back,” she breathed. He realized she was on the verge of tears. She laughed. “Gods I missed you so much.”

Oh you have no idea, he thought, sweeping her up in a kiss, swallowing her surprised cry. Greedy hands tugged at his hair and his spread over the small of her back, claiming her as his. She tore herself away first, her knuckles raking over his beard, thicker and longer than it had been when he’d left. “I have work to do,” she whispered. She bit her lower lip. “But then I expect a proper welcome.”

Yes my queen, he thought with a smile, kissing her quickly. His hand spread over her stomach and he thought about that vision he had seen. He still didn’t know what to make of it, but he would cling to it. To whatever version of Dany and Jon that was, they were blissfully happy, and they could be like that too. He nodded. “I’ll let you get back to work.” He turned to leave, but she pulled his arm back to her. 

“No,” she laughed. She smiled. “Stay here with me. Just…sit with me while I work.”

I did say I wouldn’t leave, he thought with a smile. He took a seat in one of the armchairs across from the desk, propping his feet up on the other next to him. He drew out Longclaw and picked up a linen cloth from her desk, beginning to polish down the sword. 

She glanced over at him and smiled. “You’ll have to tell me all about the North. You were gone for months.”

“Doesn’t seem like things have changed much around here.”

“How is Tormund?”

“Drinking and telling tall tales.”

“Doesn’t seem like much has changed in the North either,” she teased.

He laughed and wiped down the steel, starting to tell her the stories that Tormund told over the fire and before long, she had forgotten her work and was sitting with him, listening as he relayed the fantastical tales of Tormund Giantsbane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the reviews! 
> 
> Next time: Dany is taken out by an 'illness' that won't leave her alone; Jon ventures to meet the people; Drogon and Ghost are very excited.
> 
> Next next time: Dany pushes Jon away after a new development; Jon responds with an act of...slight madness.


	25. Children (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany is unwell; Jon ventures to meet the people; Drogon and Ghost are extremely excited.

_Ten and a Half Years After Death_

Oh gods, Dany thought, leaning over the side of her bed, holding her stomach and praying to whatever deity there existed in the world to let this illness pass her over. She closed her eyes, the nausea finally subsiding long enough for her to stand, somewhat shaky, and make her way to the washbasin in her room, and splash some cold water on her face. 

Jon walked in then, chewing on something so loudly he sounded like a fucking horse. “Do you mind?” she demanded, gritting her teeth. 

He stopped. “What?”

“Your chewing! It’s annoying!” A surge of rage went through her. It was a silly irritation, but an irritation nonetheless. She wanted to beat him. She spun around, glaring at him as he held a piece of fruit in his hand, she could have cared less what it was, and his eyes wide, mid-chew. She took a few deep breaths, the nausea coming again against her rage. Her eyes closed. “Forget it. Just…get out of my sight.”

His heel squeaked on the stone floor as he wisely made an escape. She knew she should apologize, but right now she just needed to be alone. It was going to be somewhat of a big day. All the Council would be present, at their request, for a small coronation. She had rejected anything large and ostentatious, not wanting to make a spectacle. She preferred to be in the background, letting the representatives and leaders of the cities have their due.

It was something of a self-preservation tactic as well as self-protection. 

The nausea faded as she began to go about her day, answering messages and seeing to regular tasks. As the light faded to early evening, she exited to her chambers and dressed in the regalia that had been laid out for her for the event. A beautiful black velvet dress with a high collar of red fabric shining and reminiscent of dragon scales and a blood red scaly like sash that fell to her feet, pinned at her shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. 

She exited her chambers and found Grey Worm, resplendent in boiled leather with the stamped dragon sigil in the center of his breastplate. If she had a Hand of the Queen, he would be it, but she did not want any one to feel as though they had more power than another advisor or commander. She smiled at him. “This is a foolish thing to do,” she said, walking with him to the Council Hall.

“It is necessary.”

“Yes,” she agreed. The council demanded it; they wanted to see their queen crowned. She had agreed, only allowing a handful of people to come to Valyria to celebrate with her. 

Those in attendance included the YiTish emperor and other nobles, the Ghiscari Emperor and heads of family, and all the various Magisters and merchants of power in the cities. She greeted everyone, growing weary of the constant hand kissing and head bowing. She had ordered them to never drop to their knees in front of her; it was unnecessary when they were all supposed to be equal.

It was simple enough, everyone standing as Grey Worm came behind her, dropping a thin circlet of Valyrian steel over her head, three dragons coiling together in the steel. There were no gems on it, just a simple crown for a simple queen, she had demanded, and the Qohori blacksmith followed her instruction. She would remove it as soon as she went to her chambers, but for now she plastered on a smile and met with everyone.

They toasted to their Queen, to the continued prosperity of Essos, and to the health and freedom of the United Cities. Her titles used to fill her with a sense of power and authority, but now when she heard them she merely wondered how she could have survived them all. That woman was someone else, she thought, as they spoke of the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, and the Mother of Dragons. The Undead, a new addition, reminding everyone that she could defeat them as she had also defeated death.

The day turned to night and then the night wore on and she wished she could retire to her chambers and crawl into her fluffy bed. She wanted to hug Ghost, whose presence always seemed to make her feel better. Or curl against her other wolf, his strong arms comforting her in her poor feeling.

“Your Grace you are lovely this evening,” one of the Norvos merchants said. He kissed her knuckles and stepped aside, gesturing to a pretty woman standing beside him. “Might I introduce you to our newest representative for the Norvosi people?”

The woman bowed her head. “Your Grace, it is an honor to meet the Breaker of Chains.” 

She smiled, nodding as well. “And I you. Welcome to Valyria.”

“I was a slave,” the woman continued, taking her hands and squeezing them. Dany felt her back straighten and she gripped the woman’s hands in return. “And now I am free. Thanks to you.” 

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered, trying not to cry as she took in the beautiful freed woman before her. The way Missandei had been many years before. “No you freed yourself.”

They all continued to gather, feasting and talking and she made the necessary rounds, reminded of when she was in Qarth and she was something of a novelty for the Qartheen nobles. The Dragon Queen. She gripped her cup of wine; still full from the first pour that evening. It was doing nothing to settle her stomach and she did not want to have to rush out of the events early, not with everyone having come specifically for this occasion.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see her shadow lurking. She twisted her ring around on her finger, studying the silver from her mother’s crown. This was all she needed for a coronation, she thought, lifting her gaze to meet his dark one across the room. She beckoned him forward and he hesitated, but then slipped through the columns, walking over to join her at the table. He took a seat vacated by one of the Braavosi nobles, who was currently attempting to charm one of the Lyseni representatives.

She leaned into him. “You look like a prince,” she said in compliment. The black velvet with silver embroidery at his neck only served to make his pale skin, even after all this time in the South, stand out more. His hair was pulled from his face into a simple series of Dothraki braids and she itched to tug them out and feel the curls springing into her hands. Was that how he felt when he got his hands into her braids?

Desire pooled in her stomach. He smiled, languid. “You look like a queen.” He glanced around at the people celebrating around her. There must have been near a hundred. “I thought you didn’t like these types of events.”

“I don’t, but sometimes being queen means doing things we do not like.” She fiddled with the clasp at his neck. “Why were you hiding like that? You should have feasted with us.”

He lifted an eyebrow, teasing. “Guess I still think of myself as the Bastard of Winterfell. Not allowed to join the feasts.”

She pointed over to the Myrish representative and a woman from Qohor. “They are bastards.” She scowled. “But does that mean anything here? No. Only in your old world ideals.” It irritated her to no end to think of him as a child, having to hide away from his family, a shame on their honor, when he was a king. The blood of the dragon, she thought, dragging her finger on the wolf embroidery on his neck, hidden amongst the other silver swirls so as not to be too obvious.

Not that anyone here had any doubt as to which of her advisors this man was, when they took in his Northern features and heard his accent. He simply shrugged, unbothered, and took her hand, kissing her knuckle above her ring. His pupils had blown black, hiding the gray ring around them. She smiled and curled her fingers around his chin, leaning in and whispering. “Tonight,” she promised.

He smiled, long and slow, and she was reminded how much she loved it when he smiled. It seemed as though a different person was staring back at her. She remembered a feast long ago, when he had smiled at her, while she sat in silence and loneliness in the corner. She pushed the thought away and stood, squeezing his fingers and returning to her duties as the queen, while he slunk back into the shadows.

That night she had removed her circlet and placed it in a velvet box, stowing it in a chest with some of her other more precious items. She had removed her heavy gown for a light silk shift, but it still felt like there was a weight on her body, pushing her to the ground, her limbs feeling like iron as she stumbled over to the bed. Her door opened and Jon entered, distracting her from her mission of crawling beneath the sheets and falling into sleep.

She stepped towards him, smiling as he reached for her first. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning,” she sighed, as he brushed his lips over her forehead. She purred. “I don’t know what has come over me, I have not been well.”

Uh-oh. That was her mistake, she thought, as he immediately pulled back, eyes boring questioningly into hers. “Not well? Do you want me to get a healer?” he asked, his hand cupping the back of her head. His other hand went to her hip, smoothing over her abdomen. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I am fine, I do not need a healer,” she sighed. She laughed as Ghost padded in and immediately went to her side, his nose nudging her stomach and then pressing hard, practically between her legs. “Oh!”

Jon pushed at the beast. “Get out you oaf! What’s gotten into you?”

Ghost refused, his feet digging into the floor and stayed at her side, his heavy weight pressing on her stomach. She smiled and looked up at Jon’s frustrated face. “It’s fine. He can stay here with us.” She kissed him lightly and sighed to his lips. “I just want you to hold me.”

Maybe it would take away the ill feeling that had fallen over her. She crawled into the bed and he did the same, after removing his boots. She tugged her hand through his hair, removing the braids and he did not protest. Ghost stretched over her, pinning her against the bed, for some reason highly protective. He looped his arm around her waist, tugging her back against his chest and pressing his nose behind her ear, leaving a kiss there as she snuggled with him. She glanced at the dagger on the table beside the bed, her heart rate quickening for a moment at the sight, especially at how close his hand was to her scar. 

He won’t hurt you, she said to herself, closing her eyes tight against the panic rising in her throat. He won’t hurt you. Over and over until she finally stilled a bit and softened back to him. His thumb brushed over her navel and she closed her eyes against the desire that rose from below, pushed down with the ill feeling that still crossed her. 

“I have to go soon.”

“Where?”

“Just around…like you do.” She smiled. He donned his cloak and wandered the streets of the cities, like she had shown him she did years ago. Hard to believe that was us, she thought. He kissed her ear again. “Go to sleep Dany.”

\--

“My Queen, are you still unwell?”

It was nothing, Dany kept thinking, looking out over the city below. They had taken a quick trip from Valyria over to Meereen, where it all began, she thought, gazing from the top of the Great Pyramid to the city below. It was thriving here. Sons of the Harpy had all but been eradicated, although occasionally a former master would rise up in an attempt at rebellion, only to be put down immediately.

She shook her head, continuing to gaze below and to the Bay. “I think I found my purpose,” she said, rather idly. She glanced at Ghost who was still at her side, refusing to leave it to the point where he almost snapped at a couple of Dothraki who tried to keep him from coming with her to Meereen. She’d chosen to sail to Dragon’s Bay instead of fly, simply to placate the wolf.

I was not born to rule the Seven Kingdoms like I thought, I was born for this, she believed, looking out to the distance and knowing that Valyria lay beyond. I am the Targaryen that brought back my peoples’ homeland. She smiled to herself and leaned forward, but the quick movement had her head swimming. She pressed her fingers to her temple, the action noticed by Grey Worm, who stepped forward. “I will get a healer,” he decided.

“No, do not bother. I have been feeling poorly for awhile now.” It was probably just something she had picked up from a recent trip. She waved her hand. “Perhaps the food in Ib from our recent journey there.”

He did not seem convinced. “You should rest, My Queen. There is something…I cannot place it.” He frowned. “Perhaps you just need a good sleep.”

That was not possible for her. Now more than ever, she thought. She glanced at Grey Worm. “Have you heard word from Jon?”

He scowled. “He is in Tyrosh, but you should not journey there right now, not if you are unwell.”

“I will be fine,” she said. She put on her most tattered clothes and smeared some of the cake-like dye to her silver hair, staining it dark, almost black. She braided it back loosely and turned her ring around on her finger, hiding the jewels. She could have left it behind, but she never took it off. It was the only piece of her mother she had and it anchored her to the world, reminding her to be dutiful and kind and loving. As her mother had been.

Drogon arrived at the open alcove, which she just loved, reminding her as well that once upon a time ago these spires were filled with dragons, dropping in and flying away, the riders not bothering with descending stairs when their mounts could fly straight to their window. She moved to climb onto the dragon, when he suddenly swung his head around, letting out a furl of smoke from his nostrils and his eyes turning to yellow slits. He pressed against her and she frowned. 

What the seven hells had gotten into these two, she wondered, glancing at Ghost, who if he was not mute, would likely be whining, his tongue out and panting heavily, slightly distressed. She knelt to him, nuzzling his cold nose. “I’ll be back and I’ll bring back Jon,” she promised, kissing him. She stroked his nose again and just laughed as he pushed his nose to her stomach again. 

He paced the balcony as she climbed onto Drogon, who also seemed tense, staring at her with the odd slit of his eyes. She patted his spine, now almost as long as her arm. It’s alright, she thought, connecting with his mind. She stroked his scales beneath her, which had only grown harder as he aged. There was nothing that could stop him, not even the strongest scorpion weapon would be able to pierce his hide.

They took off and she watched as Ghost jumped his paws onto the railing of the balcony, his mouth opening in a silent bark. She frowned to herself, but shook his distress from her mind, connecting instead with Drogon’s and she felt…elation?

It coursed through her to the point where her eyes fluttered shut and her limbs went fuzzy. He was so happy, more than she had ever felt him be happy before. Her mouth fell open as she gasped, seeing stars in her eyes. She blinked hard, bringing her mind back to her body, focusing on the journey ahead to Tyrosh. She stroked his scales, laughing and leaning against him, murmuring in Valyrian. “I don’t know what has gotten into you, but I am so pleased you are as happy as you are. You deserve it, my son.”

And another surge of elation washed over her. She smiled, deciding to let it fill her. Her son had never been so pleased with anything before, not the destruction in King’s Landing in revenge for his brother’s death or the taking of all the cities. Not even when she’d gotten onto him after the Shadow, his intense pleasure at departing the wasteland of magic mirroring hers in that moment.

For whatever had made him so pleased, she hoped she’d find out soon enough. 

\--

It did not take long to find him the following day. 

All she had to do was ask a few merchants in the market if they had seen a Northman. “Yes my lady,” one of them said, nodding to her and gesturing. “At the House of Healing. He tells stories for the little ones.”

“Thank you,” she said, nodding in graciousness.

“My lady, please, here,” the merchant, an oils and balms seller, pressed a small bit of peppermint into her hand. She took the pouch, lifting her head in curiosity. He smiled. “For your nausea, I see you hold your stomach. It will help, stew in hot water.”

She smiled, her hand closing tight around the mint. The smell of it already seemed to help quell the pain in her stomach. She just could not shake whatever it was that had knocked her down so. “Thank you.”

The pouch under her nose, she sniffed it as she kept walking, making her way to one of the Houses of Healing. The flag of her forefathers flew beneath another flag with a lemon tree, its roots curling into the ground like dragon claws. It was a symbol of peace and acceptance, so all knew they would be welcome there and would find assistance for their ailments or their troubles. 

In front of the Tyroshi house, she saw a fountain and the alcove where she liked to sit when she would come on official business to listen to the people. The fountain was of lovely dolphins and fish and mermaids, water spitting out their mouths and tails. Children were piled up several deep on the shallow stairs, listening to the slightly hooded figure that sat at the top step of the alcove, his soft voice captivating them. 

The sight of the vibrantly dressed and hair-colored children, for Tyroshi never met a dye or fabric they did not like, against the white marbled stone and the black figure of him, his hair tied from his face and his gray eyes sparkling beneath the hood, was startling but it fit. A combination of both cultures. He spoke in Common Tongue, but sometimes tried to say words in the Low Valyrian dialect, but it didn’t matter if the children didn’t understand, they just laughed and listened to the strange traveler who spoke of a land they could only dream about.

She stepped up behind some of the children, coming to her knees and folding her hands in her lap, listening intently. He was in the middle of telling them about the North and she began to follow. “…And giants, bigger than the tallest mountain, walked again,” he said, dragging it out. He held up his finger. “And their swords were made of ice and not even a hundred arrows could pierce their skin.”

“Like dragons?” a little boy piped up.

He nodded solemnly. “Like dragons. In fact, in the North, there are tales as far as you go, the closer you get to the Heart of Winter, there are ice dragons, who breathe a mist so cold it freezes you in your steps and turns you to a block of ice.” He paused for effect, all the children gaping and waiting for his next word. He slapped Longclaw onto the stone, the loud clatter causing some to yelp, fall, and jump. “And you can shatter with just one touch.”

“Is there a queen there?” 

“Yeah! Like our queen?”

He smiled a little, his gray eyes dusting over the children. “Well there is a story about a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch who married a woman of winter, with eyes as blue as ice and hair as white as the snow. They called her the Night’s Queen and he was the Night’s King. The castle where they lived is an abandoned place, haunted by their ghosts, and if you go there, you can still hear them calling for each other.” He shook his head. “But the only queen the North has is the woman who saved them.”

“Saved them?”

She narrowed her eyes, curious. What was he playing at, talking about his sister like this to a bunch of the people in her kingdoms? She cocked her head beneath her hood, still listening. She would not make herself known to him just yet. “Aye,” he said. “Saved them from the Night King. She brought two dragons, an army of Dothraki, and her Unsullied, freed men from Astapor who are the fiercest of all the fighters in the world. She fought the Night King on her dragon and when she fell, she picked up a dragonglass sword and slayed many of his men. She lost many friends in her battle, but in the end, she saved the North and without her, it would be no more.” 

Oh. She stared straight at him and blinked when his eyes met hers across the tops of the little children’s heads. A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. He ruffled the head of one of the kids who was closest to him. “That’s enough now I think. Go back to your parents.”

The disappointment was palpable, the children grumbling and moping as they got up, but they had stories to share amongst themselves in the future and to those who came after. She got to her feet and waited for him to join her, his arm looping through hers as they walked in the streets. She rested her hand on his arm, holding it as she walked beside him, the hood of her cloak having fallen to her back, but her dyed dark hair preventing people from truly knowing her identity.

She looked sideways, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “You know a Northman in Tyrosh telling stories of the Night King…that is going to garner some questions I would imagine if it found its way across the sea.”

“There are plenty who know that story I imagine. I heard a Westerosi in the port telling it yesterday,” he said, glancing down at her. He smiled quickly at her surprise. “Nothing more than an escapee, you have nothing to fear.”

Good, she liked living without the interference of the Westerosi. Their close-mindedness and insistence on keeping to the past used to boil her blood, but now they were nothing more than irritants. She looked up as a cloud passed over the sun, darkening the city for a moment. She sighed and glanced at the ground, pausing when she saw something poking from the gutter. “Stop.”

The item came out with a quick tug and she stood, holding the torn slave collar in her hands. It was made of rough leather and she could see the stain of dried blood on the interior. The iron loop, where it tied to a chain, was gone, but she still knew what it was. She walked with it for a few steps and then threw it into a fire as they past. “I am setting my sights beyond the Free Cities and beyond Dragon’s Bay,” she announced.

He tensed. “Like where?”

“YiTi. I have sent a delegation in an attempt to identify the people’s thoughts on the matter. The emperor is still hoping I will avoid bringing them into the fold, preferring to remain independent, but we shall see if it may one day benefit us both,” she said. She lifted her skirt slightly, hopping over a large puddle in the cobblestone.

“And then where?”

“The Five Forts. Bonetown. K’Dath. To the Grey Waste and beyond.”

“Beyond the Grey Waste is Westeros, the Lands of Always Winter,” he murmured.

“Then I will make the Sunset Sea mine, but I have no interest in the West again,” she said, her mind firm on that matter. They didn’t want her. They can live without her, even if it meant dying. She took a deep breath. “Even if it is dangerous, even if I have to go back to the Shadow.”

“Dany…”

“You can come with me.” She stopped at a pier, at the edge of the sea. Her hands folded into his and she smiled up at him, his face uncertain. “You can see just where our magic resides. It’s terrifying but…in a way it is glorious.”

He ran his finger over her cheek and then his thumb brushed over her lower lip. She quivered. How did this man have the power to make her fall to her knees? Make her forget everything that had happened to her after he came into her life? She thought of the dagger on her hip, the fear that sometimes paralyzed her, and pushed it from her mind. He kept his eyes open and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her gently. It sometimes freaked her out, when he would do that, kiss with his eyes open. Never breaking eye contact with her, as though reminding her that he was never out of her sight.

Her eyes fluttered shut thought, a moment later, savoring the feeling of his arms around her. The city moved behind them, people jostling and moving, going about their business, and they had no idea that their queen stood in dirty rags at the end of a pier with a man in a black cloak who might very well have been their king. “I will follow you anywhere,” he rasped. His voice was cracking. “My queen.”

The ill feeling she’d had passed in that moment, just for a short time, as she smiled against his lips, feeling that odd happiness of Drogon again seeping through her body. She sighed against his mouth and smiled. “Let’s go back to Valyria,” she murmured. 

“_Kessa, issa daria._”

Yes, my queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews! Grateful so many are enjoying this story.
> 
> Next time: Jon figures out what is wrong with Dany; Dany has a moment of panic; Jon does something a bit mad.


	26. Fire and Blood (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon figures out what is wrong with Dany; the dragon awakes.

How many more ways could he write the same thing, Jon wondered, scribbling something about how it was business as usual, ranging in the North and he wasn’t sure when he would have time to send another message. He inquired about the castle, the famine that he knew plagued them all, and mentioned good fortune for Arya’s continuing journey and hope that maybe one day he’d see her again. See them all again.

He wasn’t sure if that was a lie or if it was truth.

Either way, Jon dropped the quill and blew on the ink, waiting for it to dry. He reached for the black wax stick, dipping it into the candle and watching the single flame lick at the end, a drop appearing before he turned and stamped it onto the scroll. There was no sigil for the Watch and he didn’t figure it would do well anyway to act like he had created his own. People might talk.

And all he wanted was for them to just keep thinking he was wandering the wilds, occasionally reaching out to remind them that he was alive, lest they go looking for him.

“Did you ever find out when you went North if they wrote you back?”

He looked up at the voice, smiling at the sight of Dany leaning against the doorframe, wearing a simple silk robe over her linen shift. Her feet were bare and her hair in a short braid to the base of her neck. He shook his head. “Only the Night’s Watch, but even then I think Tormund said there’s been only two ravens sent to Hardhome in all these years.”

“Bastards,” she said. He didn’t know if she was speaking about the Night’s Watch or his family.

“I just don’t want them to get ideas. Let them think I’m somewhere in the North, that’s all.”

“How long will it last, you think?” She didn’t wait for his answer and walked over to sit on the edge of the desk, her arms folding over her chest and watching him for a moment before she wondered out loud again. “Why are you still here?”

They had these conversations every so often, he thought, trying to think when they had the last one. She would just pose that question, as though trying to find a reason for why he needed to leave again. He had vowed more than once that he would never leave. Sometimes it happened after a particularly stressful day, when she returned from an argument with a Magister or a merchant. He tended to ignore them. “I don’t know Dany,” he said this time. He kept making up lies, finding it ironic that the most honorable son of Ned Stark was spending most of his life now lying to the same family who thought he was the most honorable. “I’m not a king, so what am I still doing here?”

“You’re my advisor.” 

“And what do I advise you on?”

She said something in Valyrian, he thought it was fairly dirty, the way she licked her tongue over her lips when she said it. He glared at her for a moment and returned to his writings. She sighed. “You listen to the people you know. You tell me what they think and where I should go next…you should be a king. You are a king.”

“I was a king, I gave that up.” And the North never forgave him for it, until it came time for him to take her out of the picture. He changed the subject, noting that she smelled of peppermint, which she had taken to drinking in hot water almost religiously for the last few weeks. “Are you feeling any better? You need to see a healer, this has gone on quite a long time.”

“I feel fine, better.” A strange look crossed her face, but she shook her head and sighed, reaching for his wrist. “Come to bed.”

“Hmm….almost done.” Then he wouldn’t have to do this for some time. He kept writing, ignoring or at least trying to ignore, the feeling of her hovering behind him, her lips tickling his neck as she peered over his shoulder. Her hands went to his shoulders and pushed up over the neck of his tunic, beginning to undo the ties. Gods, he thought, but he stared at the parchment, finishing the sentence.

Wait, what did he just write? He scribbled out the nonsense and tried again, only her hands disappeared and he heard a clink of something falling to the floor. He glanced sideways and she looked innocent, a tiny smile on her face. “Oops, I dropped one of the quills.”

He shook his head and looked back at the paper, feeling a cool breeze hit him as she ducked beneath the desk. He kept writing and then let out a harsh gasp, the tip of the quill tearing at the parchment as his hand ricocheted sideways. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he swore he saw what had to be all the gods staring at him, before he tried to come back to his body. He peered down at her, seeing her face peering up from beneath the desk, her face purely innocent. 

He swallowed hard. “What are you doing?” he managed to get out. 

“Looking for the quill.”

“And it’s in my…” A strangled sound escaped him again. Fuck, he thought, shaking his head and trying to see straight. He grabbed her from the ground, pushing back from the chair. “Gods Dany.”

“You’re no fun,” she thought, kissing him.

The quills, parchment, and ink crashed to the floor as he practically flung her onto the desk, her dragon growl shooting pleasure through him as she tore off his shirt and tugged at the waist of his breeches while he hiked the skirt of her shift over her hips, taking her right there, both of them unable to make it in time to the perfectly good bed nearby.

When they finished, he carried her over to the bed and dropped her down onto the silks and the furs. He could hear Ghost somewhere in the hall, scratching at the door and cursed his wolf, who had not be able to let her from his side, needing to sleep with her every night and be at her side through every meeting. He finally stretched out beside her and skated his fingers from her collarbone, through the valley of her breasts, and then to her navel and back up again. 

As his hand smoothed over one, he frowned as she flinched slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing they just…hurt a bit lately.” Another weird look went over her face. “But…it can’t be. It isn’t…nevermind.”

Whatever she was thinking of soured the mood, because he sat up on his elbow and peered down at her. Tears were in the corners of her eyes; unshed. He placed his hand back on her stomach, normally tight and smooth. Maybe he hadn’t paid much attention to it, but he focused now on the curve there and then to her tears. “Dany,” he breathed, his heart pounding. He swallowed hard. “I’m not a Maester but…could you…could you be…”

“No!” she cried, pushing his hand from her stomach and curling into a ball, her arms going around her knees. She cried into her pillow and whipped her head on it. “No I can’t be! I’m not allowed!”

Oh gods, he thought, burying his face into his hands. He scrubbed at his face and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to come to terms with this. He tried to still his breathing, but it came fast and sharp. It was starting to make sense. All of it made sense when you thought about it long enough. Her illness, the change in her body…he knew every inch, every curve, and every angle of her. “Dany you’re…”

“Don’t say it!” She sat up, sobbing. She shook her head again. “I can’t be, I’m not allowed! Every time, I can’t!” She hiccupped and met his eyes, a fire forming somewhere under the tears. She pointed to the door. “Get out.”

But it’s my room, he thought, sighing. He stood and looked down at her small body in the big bed. “Dany…”

“Out!” she screamed.

He grabbed his clothes, walking out of the room and dressing in the hall, praying Grey Worm or another one of her men didn’t walk by to find him half-naked, having been kicked out of his room by the queen. He waited a moment and hit his head back against the closed door. By gods, if she was with child…his heart jumped in his throat. Happiness seeped through him. Until a creeping doubt began to smother it out. No, he thought, closing his eyes. 

A bastard.

The child would be a bastard. One of his greatest fears realized. He couldn’t. 

The Essosi didn’t care about bastards, she told him almost daily. She almost seemed to love him for it, remembering how she used to tease him in bed on the boat by calling him Lord Snow. It didn’t matter to him though. All his life he had been tied down by his name, by the fact that he happened to be a child born to parents who were not married. Shamed, abused for it. Sent to the Wall for it, because he had no other path in life.

And even knowing how that not only was he not a bastard, but a king, he still couldn’t comprehend. No, he wouldn’t do that to his child. Never. But she didn’t even want to see him right now. He didn’t even think it was possible, she said it all the time. 

_Did it ever occur to you that she may not have been the most reliable source of information?_

Gods, he thought, looking up at the hallway ceiling. 

Westeros.

Fuck, he immediately thought, eyes widening. They had to protect the child. No one could ever find out about the baby. He spun around, banging on the door, but she’d locked it. “Fuck! Dany open this door!” he bellowed, kicking at it with his bare foot. He cursed in pain as he stubbed his toe, hopping in place for a second before he kept banging on it. 

“Go away!” she screamed from somewhere inside. 

You are not doing this to me now, he thought, turning and storming down the hall and passed some of the Unsullied and Dothraki who were on guard at the base of the stairs. They did not even look at him, as stupid as he must have seemed, in only his breeches, the laces practically undone and his tunic hanging untucked and open. He stormed barefoot through the courtyards until he got to the Dragon Tower, screaming for Eddarion. 

He didn’t have to do that, the dragon already flying from his roost, screeching as he sensed the distress. He cut his feet, feeling the blood on his ankles as he stepped onto Eddarion’s scales. He pulled at the spines on the dragon’s back and Eddarion screamed, taking off and flying up and over. He wanted to burn something. 

Fire and blood, he thought, no one really knew what they meant. 

Winter is coming, an ominous warning and need for constant preparations and wariness of outsiders. Here me roar, when all the Lannisters did was cut off the roars of everyone around them. High as honor, said the falcons in their nest, looking down in judgment and disdain. Growing strong, the extinct house words said. Unbent, unbowed, unbroken, and to this day all dead as well.

And fire and blood.

Fire and blood.

It was all he could see. 

They hurt her. They could hurt my child. 

At the top of the sky, seeing nothing but the rumbling fires of Valyria and the smoking sea below him, Jon let out a dragon-like roar, which only encouraged Eddarion. He suddenly fell forward against the dragon, closing his eyes, and feeling broken. 

He turned Eddarion almost straight down, plummeting to the firey sea, the smoking mountains blurring his vision again. 

She was not going to push him away.

Not now of all times. 

He dug his knees into Eddarion’s sides, sending him straight to the spire. They circled a few times, until he spotted the balcony to his room and lowered the massive dragon down, Eddarion’s giant wings flapping to keep him in place as he gripped the railing. 

“Dany!” he bellowed.

Inside the room she jerked up in the bed, glaring at him, her purple eyes expanding to the size of plates. She kicked at the blanket over her and jumped up, running out to the balcony. She gaped at him and gripped her hands at her sides. “You are mad!”

Well I am a Targaryen he thought darkly. “So what if I am!?” he yelled. 

“You are…” She looked over the edge of the balcony at the cliff edge below, the sea raging below. She shook her head, laughing and gesturing to his bleeding bare feet on the dragon’s hide. “You’re bleeding! You’re…you’re here…” She was speechless and he didn’t care.

“Well I really wanted to kill the woman who made you think like this about your baby!” He squinted at her over the top of Eddarion’s frill. The anger in him coursed through Eddarion again, the dragon screaming his rage at the long dead blood mage. “And who else made you think like this? Tyrion Lannister? I’ll fly to Westeros myself tonight and take his head. Your brother? I’ll find his body and burn it again for good measure.”

Something lit in her eyes and he thought it might have been that same madness that was going through him right then. It was the same glassy look she had in the throne room long ago. He smiled darkly. “I’ll kill them all Dany, if it means having you stop these thoughts.” He suddenly softened. “Because you deserve a family.” 

She hesitated but shook her head; the glassy look replaced with shimmering tears. “I can’t be, I mean…no.” She waved her hand, as though dismissing him. “Just leave me alone.”

Oh gods no. Not now. He climbed off Eddarion, sending the dragon on his way as he stormed across the floor to meet her. He gripped her upper arms, dragging her towards him. “You are not pushing me away now!”

She sobbed, her fingers in his hair, holding him against her and collapsing. He gripped her tight, feeling her pain in his heart. “I can’t lose this baby,” she cried. She shook her head from side to side. “I have to be with child, there’s no other reason for why I feel like this…why my body is doing what it is doing. I suppose I thought I might be, when I didn’t feel better and when my body started to change, but I haven’t bled since that witch…and…and I ignored it because if I am, if I lose this baby…” She began to heave her sobs, almost making herself sick.

The rage went up in the same smoke that filtered from the sea below. It was replaced with an intense need to comfort. Maybe this was madness, he thought, the swift change in feeling. He fell to his knees in front of her, pushing up the skirt of her shift to reveal her belly to him. His eyes closed and he wrapped his arms around her waist, his lips dropping featherlight kisses over the slight swell. Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping him for support. He swore he could feel the baby, he thought, and his cheek on her smooth skin. He smiled, eyes closed and arms tight around her. Our baby. He kissed her belly again, just below her navel. “This is how it is supposed to be Dany,” he breathed, tilting his head back, her hands holding onto either side of his face.

She sniffed. A few of her tears dripped onto his face, but he did not wipe them away. “I’m so scared Jon. What if they find us? What if they send an assassin to kill us?”

They would have already done it, he thought, but shook his head. It was different now, knowing there was a child involved. “The Faceless Men would never take that contract,” he whispered. He would make sure of it.

“There is one Faceless Man who would.”

His jaw set. “No,” he said, firm. Out of the question. “Arya would never hurt my child.” 

“You are still such a fool Jon Snow,” she muttered, letting go of him and taking a step back out of his arms. She folded her arms over her chest again, glaring. “They did not trust me the moment I stepped foot in the yard of Winterfell and I would never trust them now. Not with this.”

We still need to confirm it is even true, but he knew it was. He wasn’t going to fight her on Arya. He knew his sister, even if sometimes he thought he never did, but he was sure of it. She didn’t break the oath in the godswood. She was the one who always loved him and if he told her she was going to be an aunt, well she wouldn’t hurt them. He stood and went to the door, unbolting it and letting Ghost fly in to join her on the bed. The wolf’s head instantly went to cover her stomach. Gods we were blind, he realized. Ghost had known this entire time. He turned away and went down to the Unsullied. “Call a healer,” he ordered. “The queen needs one.”

It was the middle of the night, but her men worked fast, and a Dothraki midwife appeared not long after, pushing him out of the room and slamming the door in his face. He stood outside in the corridor, pacing, a sign of the future he imagined, and with Rono waiting beside him, Grey Worm also at the ready.

Rono spoke, the first of them. “You going to be father, no one will harm child.”

He lifted his head. “Why do you say that?”

The Dothraki grinned. “No one want to fight dragon and wolf at same time.”

That had him smiling. Yes, the child would be both. As he was. He looked at Grey Worm, who merely was standing back in the shadows, having not said a word since Rono collected him once the healer had been called. He nodded towards her loyal friend. “What do you think?”

Grey Worm’s answer surprised him. It was not at all what he anticipated. “I think my queen be good mother.” He paused. “She want this long time.” He glared over. “And you hurt her…”

Yes, I know, Jon nodded. He slumped against the wall. “Believe me, I’ll kill myself if I hurt her again,” he whispered. There were two now. Dany and their child. Oh gods. He smiled again, unable to help himself. Their child.

The door opened and he jumped to his feet, Rono grabbing him to keep him from falling over. The midwife, a large Dothraki woman with a knot of braids on her head, who had reportedly helped with the successful birth of hundreds of Dothraki children and horses alike, exited the room and smiled proudly. She spoke in Dothraki. “Our khaleesi is with a stallion.”

A strangled cry left him at the confirmation and he ran into the room, falling to her side at the bed, where she was lying on her side, a pillow in her arms. Ghost had his head on her feet. He gripped her hands, kissing them and pressing his forehead against hers. The sudden elation was replaced with a horrible fear. A baby. “Oh gods Dany.”

“I’m so scared,” she whispered.

His heart ached. He wanted to whisk her away to somewhere only they knew, where they could just live forever and not have to worry about the threats of the world. He kissed her knuckle, above her ring. “You will not be harmed,” he breathed. Vowed. “I swear it to you. Nothing will come to you or the child.” He nodded to Ghost. “Ghost will rip their throat out.” He smiled. “If I do not get to them first and have their head and burn their body where they lay.”

The glassy look crossed over again. “So dark Jon Snow.”

He’d had the thoughts before; he just never really acted on them. Ghost licked his muzzle, as though ready at the thought of destroying someone who threatened them. She tried to laugh, but it came as a sob, her forehead furrowed and her violet eyes shaded dark, wavering still in the dim candlelight. “Even if no one sticks a knife in my belly, there is also the curse. She said I would bear no living child. I could give birth to a dead creature, just like Rhaego.”

Just like our daughter, she silently said, conveying it with her eyes, which flickered to her stomach. He closed his eyes, relishing in the image of killing that witch again. Just for a moment, before he brought himself to her again. “That curse died with you,” he decided. It had to have. She died, so the curse was over, if there was ever one to begin with. “Did you ever wonder that?”

“No.” She shook her head on the pillow again. “But what about Tyrion…about your brother?”

“They will not come for you. They haven’t yet.” 

“They think that they can stay away from here so long as I stay away from them, but what happens when that changes,” she whispered, shaking her head. She sniffed, her fingers curling into her belly and he pressed his palm against it, warm against her cool skin. “What happens when your sister finds out that there is a child with a claim to the North and the South? To both thrones?” She shook her head, whispering. “Tyrion will kill it in a moment if Sansa doesn’t get to it first.”

Gods, he wished he could say that would not happen, but he did not know any of those people any longer. Not even his sister. He kissed her hand again. “Then I will find them.” He continued, calm and steady. “And I will tear their skin off and each limb and I will burn them and feed their body to Eddarion.” He snarled, a feral wolf protecting its pack. Or a dragon. “No one will ever harm this baby or you. I will die before that happens.”

No matter the cost, he thought, climbing into the bed and pulling her to his chest, his hand going to cover hers over her stomach. After a bit, she fell into a sleep, and he waited until he was sure she was gone before he lowered himself down to her stomach, kissing the swell again. He smiled, the side of his face pressing into it and his hand on the other side of her belly. My child, he thought. He closed his eyes tight.

Was this what his mother thought, when she asked Ned to protect him? Was this what Rhaegar thought, when he departed for his death? The overwhelming sense of responsibility to this person he did not even know existed until a few hours ago, and Jon knew he would gladly slit his own throat if the babe asked.

You are mine and I am yours, he prayed, hoping the gods could hear him. He closed his eyes and hugged her close, hugged their baby close. I swear it.

\--

Only two days after they found out about the baby, Jon told Dany he would be back soon, he wanted to check on one of the lads from Westeros he had met at one of the Houses of Healing in Pentos. She nodded, not saying much, as she hadn’t since she found out about the baby. He knew she was terrified of what might happen and he did not blame her. 

He flew Eddarion north and then to the west, but they crossed over Pentos and instead went for Braavos. He landed the dragon down before the tall building with the matching black and white tiles to his dragon’s scales. Eddarion sniffed at his wing and picked at an imaginary disturbance near the tip, shifting and scanning his giant head from side to side. 

It would be obvious, he knew, but right now he was not thinking like a queen’s strategist. 

He was thinking like a father.

He had never felt a more powerful sense of loyalty and protection in his entire life, which was saying something as someone who grew up in the Stark household. He wondered if this was how Dany felt when her sons were shot from the sky. He had killed her for turning off her feeling, for wanting to burn and destroy, fearing it would turn on him and his family. 

And now he felt something different, a different sense of need to protect his family. 

He did not bother knocking on the doors, pulling them open and entering the temple to the Many-Faced God. He paused, waiting for the man who appear. He stared at him, with the blank face and wearing the gray cloak. He placed his hand on Longclaw and his voice was calm, eerie and still. “My name is Jon Snow.”

“A man knows who you are.”

“Then a man knows that if a man takes a contract for the face of Daenerys Targaryen or any of her family, then this man will have their head for his gods,” he said, not breaking eye contact. A thin smile appeared on his lips. “I have killed many men, enough to fill this room with their faces. I remember someone of them. I do not like to take their lives, but I will do it to protect the ones I love.”

The Faceless Man smiled. “A man understands. There will be no Targaryen faces here.”

“Thank you.” Jon turned, striding out of the house. He climbed onto the back of Eddarion, this time taking off and making his way to the port. He hopped off of Eddarion, several feet from the ground, letting the dragon fly away as he strode straight towards the ship that he knew, from Dany’s letters with the port masters, would be heading for Westeros. 

He drew out the scroll he had written and slipped in a black dragon scale. He went straight to the captain and handed it to him, hiding behind the black hood of his cloak. He knew that a long time ago Dany had done something similar, angry and wanting them to know. He wanted them to know something too. He handed the parchment to the captain, his voice muffled behind the black mask he had pulled up over his mouth and nose, only his gray eyes visible.

“Give this to the Hand of the King,” he ordered. 

“And who should I say it is from?” the captain asked, wary as he took the scroll.

Jon smiled behind the mask over his mouth. “The dragon.” He turned and strode off, sweeping onto Eddarion as the dragon skated over the water on the other side of the ship, sending everyone into a massive chaotic scramble, having never had the dragons that occasionally flew over the city get that close to them.

He swept over the port and up to the sky, feeling oddly calm. He sighed, pulling back the hood of the cloak and the black linen he’d had around his face. He patted Eddarion’s back. “Let’s go home.”

The dragon roared and took off for Valyria. 

And when he walked into their room, finding her sitting at the desk, he knew he had some explaining to do. She peered up, frowning and holding up the parchment that had been under the one he’d written out on earlier. He could see the indentations and ink from his hurried writing. He knew she would likely figure it out. He’d been very angry when he wrote it out. He wasn’t going to hide it from her. “Why did you write a warning to Tyrion Lannister about interfering in Essosi affairs?”

He merely smiled. “Fire and blood, Dany.” He understood what it meant now. Now more than he ever had before. He wondered if he would feel like this if he’d known before…if he’d known about the baby before he killed her.

Violet eyes sparkling, she cocked her head a little, curious, but did not question. “Fire and blood, Jon.” She lightly touched her stomach. “Fire and blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I wrote Dark!Jon very well, still conflicted. Oh well.
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews! 
> 
> Next time: Dany frets over passing on the Targaryen madness; Jon tries to talk sense.


	27. Fear (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany fears what might happen with the baby; Jon provides some reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of just an expansion of the previous chapter but from Dany's POV. The next few chapters are going to be pretty close together time-wise.
> 
> Also, if you go back to the first fic I wrote in chapter 2-- the letter he gets with the dragon scale is actually from Jon, he just assumes it is Dany. Jon just uses her words. :D

“Oh!” Dany exclaimed, reaching down beneath the sheet to touch her stomach. She smiled, thinking of long ago when she thought she could feel Rhaego. This was as far along as she had ever gotten, near five months with child, according to the Dothraki midwife. The babe was growing healthy, she pronounced, and the kicking was a sign of a strong stallion.

Of course Jon would put a strong baby inside of her, she thought, trying not to think of the pain that that might mean when she delivered. If she delivered. She tried to push that thought out of her mind, simply stroking her belly as the babe inside kicked her. Jon moved beside her, waking and reaching. He had been more than attentive with her since they found out the news, never letting her from his sight longer than a moment. Except that day he escaped to Braavos and sent that letter to Tyrion Lannister. The action surprised her, but she soon realized that was wrong. He was protecting his family. Fire and blood, he meant it that day. There had been a shift in the way she viewed him. Less fear than she had before. Since then though, he had been always at her side.

Between him and Ghost, and Drogon, she very rarely had a minute’s piece. Even when she visited the privy, Ghost waited outside for her. Sometimes he even stuck his paw under the door. Eddarion was the only one who didn't care much and she figured that was because Jon gave her more attention than him, which he hated.

His hand rested on top of hers and she could feel him smiling against her neck. “She’s kicking,” he whispered. He insisted that the child was a girl. She was not sure yet. 

Don’t give it a name, she thought, closing her eyes tight against the dark thoughts. The thoughts of Rhaego, mourning the child she had loved so much and wanted so desperately, born sickly and deformed, a curse from the witch. The thoughts of her unnamed daughter, so tiny and frail, with her cap of dark hair and her closed eyes. Kinvara asked if she wanted to see them open, but she didn’t, she didn’t want to know if the child looked like him or her, she just mourned.

If we give this babe a name and something happens, I will never live again, she vowed, pushing his hand away and sitting up. “I need you to leave,” she whispered. If he was here it made this more difficult. He loved the thing inside of her. He thought she didn’t know, but she did. She knew he would whisper to it at night. Jon Snow, speaking to an unborn child, the man who rarely said a word, pouring his soul out to a woman’s stomach. She sniffed. “You’re dead. So am I. You’ll make me lose it. This babe will be a monster,” she cried.

It was unfair to put her fears onto him, but it was the easiest thing she could do. Even if her horrible misdeeds and actions of the past weren’t enough to invoke a curse on her, then it was his. It was whatever he brought with him having been brought back from the dead, same as her. They both knew what it meant. They barely ate. They barely slept. They both admitted to having dreams through the eyes of their familiars and no longer. They were walking shells of themselves and how could those types of people have a baby?

She had spent time in the Shadow as well. That had to have done something to her. Created an inhospitable environment or something. Her baby probably kicked as much as it did because it had ten legs or something horrific, she thought, still cupping her belly through the silk shift she wore, the waist having been taken out at the top to accommodate her as she grew. 

If she grew, she thought darkly.

“No it won’t Dany.”

She cried into her palm. “Don’t call me that.”

“I will call you it because that is your name,” he said, curving around her again and placing his hand atop her stomach. It felt so good, she thought, eyes opening and feeling him there, the hardness of his body behind her, helping her prop up slightly, and his hand as close to their child as he could get. She gazed to the mirror that was across from the bed, propped in the corner and she could see his eyes.

The gray had turned dark, like they did when he was very emotional. His lips brushed over her ear and he used his free hand, the one that currently wasn’t pinned under her and cupping the bottom of her belly, to pull her hair from her neck, allowing him greater access to press light kisses there. “This is going to turn out good,” he whispered. “I know it will. I saw it, in the North.”

And he told her about something he had seen, when he was broken and wondering just what type of future they could possibly have together. It felt like someone took him away and he was in a warm room, he could feel the fire from the hearth on his face. He could smell the sweetness of the blue winter roses and the powders she used on her skin and the lemons in the water she drank each morning. 

It sounded wonderful, she thought, closing her eyes around tears. It sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world. He kissed her neck around each word, his knuckles grazing up and down the side of her belly, quelling the child within. “And gods our child will be beautiful,” he whispered, the Northern accent sending her toes curling into the mattress, the way he spoke. “She’ll have your temper and she will speak to dragons and wolves and if it’s a boy, he’ll be the most handsome lad in all the known world, he’ll look like his mother with silver hair and violet eyes and no matter a son or a daughter, they’ll shoot a bow better than us and swing a sword.”

She closed her eyes tighter with each beautiful image that flashed before her. “How can you say that when it won’t happen?” she whispered.

“It won’t happen if you keep willing it so Dany. Just allow yourself to feel it.” He smiled into her neck. “Ghost feels it, why you think he’s here all the time? He knows and so do the dragons.”

That was why Drogon had felt so happy, she realized after the midwife told her about the child. He was excited because he would be getting another sibling. Each time she went to him, he nuzzled her belly, the massive head gentle as he touched her and his attention always on her as she climbed onto him for a ride. Even so, she thought, thinking about all those other times she thought she was happy. “I was happy with my husband, or at least I thought I was,” she whispered, shaking her head. “And then I lost him, lost my child…I was happy when we arrived at Winterfell and then we found out about your bloodline and that went to shit. I was happy when we defeated the Army of the Dead and not a day later I lost Rhaegal and Missandei.” She cried. “And I was happy when I had the throne and the man I loved killed me.”

His fingers tightened a bit at the top of her belly, where the scar under her breast had stretched with the skin around it, looking more horrible than it ever had before. “You were not happy,” he whispered. He shook his head and she could see his anger in the reflection in the mirror. “You weren’t you, Dany, in that moment. That wasn’t you. All those other times, they just happened that way. It had nothing to do with your happiness.”

He sat up then and she rolled onto her back as he all but straddled her legs, his hands going to the top of her stomach and his eyes focused intensely on her. “You weren’t the Dany that I fell in love with. The one who lost a child for my stupid cause. The one who did nothing when I refused to bend the knee and smiled when I walked out of that war room without your permission.” He kissed her stomach again, his eyes still on hers. “And the Dany who sits in the dirt with children and argues with Magisters and comes to agreements and compromise. You free the people and evolve the system.” He shook his head. “The Dany in the Iron Throne room wanted to kill anyone who disagreed with her and that isn’t you.”

It was a beautiful sentiment, but it wasn’t true, she insisted. “Look at my family,” she cried. She sniffed. “I know what they said about me, I know what Varys did to me…he probably killed our child for all I know too, he poisoned me! He was killing me so he could have you as the choice! All because of my blood! I know what they say about the Targaryens.” She sneered, mocking. “When a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin…”

“And see which side it lands on,” he finished. He nodded. “I know, believe me I know.” They said it to him. He nodded again at her questioning look. “Varys said he was certain what side mine landed on, but…” He smirked. “After how I reacted when we found out…I don’t know about that.” 

“Ser Barristan Selmy told me too. That I wasn’t my father.” He would have been ashamed of her too. She turned her head to the side. “But we are, aren’t we?”

“We are not our blood Dany. You are not your father anymore than I am mine.”

“But you are,” she whispered, blinking hard. “Don’t you see Jon? I murdered thousands of innocent people and you ran away for love.”

He shook his head, whispering. “Rhaegar ran away for love, but I killed my love. He didn’t do that.” He lowered himself back down to her side; his leg still pinned over her knees and his hand on the belly. “You are not evil and stop thinking you are as an excuse to find a reason to not be happy about this. I murdered my kin, my child, my queen. I deserted and I abandoned. I trusted too easy and it ended in death.” He kissed her navel. “I will be here with you for always Dany.” He smiled. “Even if you do not want to get out of this bed and make me go all over Essos to find what you want I will do it.”

She smiled, in spite of herself. “Really?” Her voice sounded so tiny and scared.

He nodded. “Really.”

“My feet hurt.”

“Then I’ll rub them.”

“And my back,” she whispered, smiling. 

“And I’ll get that too,” he said. 

“And I kind of want some of those sweets that the Braavosi merchant brought us.”

“I’ll find them immediately.”

“Jon?” She reached for his face, turning it towards her. She smiled, the tears finally falling, although this time they were in happiness. “I really want you to kiss me.”

He grinned, his gray eyes crinkling. It was such a rare sight and it filled her with joy. The baby did a move in her stomach and she wondered if they liked it too. “Of course I’ll do that too,” he replied, leaning over and pressing a kiss to her lips, his hand cupping her cheek.

She turned to her side and he held her close that night. She thought of what he said, about the dream he’d had in the North. Or the vision. It was hard to tell sometimes. They were in a house somewhere, a warm room with a fire and a big bed. She wanted that. Wherever it was, she wanted it and it wasn’t here, in her beautiful Valyria with its high ceilings and domed windows. The colored glass and vibrant murals on all the walls. Where it was sometimes too hot for a fire to be going for anything other than light in the evenings.

She thought of the island they had found that one-day. Sometimes he went back to it, she knew he did. She hadn’t been back, but she wanted to go and see it now. See if maybe that was the place where he had seen her with a baby and given her winter roses. Winter roses like what Rhaegar gave Lyanna at the Tourney of Harranhal, she thought. She wished she could have seen them in the North.

She waited until she thought he was at least in some sort of sleep state, climbing carefully from the bed. She walked over to the balcony and looked out at her kingdom. Ghost came up beside her and she smiled down at him, reaching to scratch his good ear. “You really want this child don’t you,” she wondered, as he pressed himself to her side. She looked out, watching a couple of the dragons fly around. She spotted Arrax and Wildfyre. There went Volantys and Dreamfyre. All four of her little hatchlings were not so little any more.

She turned from the window and went to the embers glowing in the hearth, kneeling as best as she could with her growing belly, and studied the three eggs that glowed there. The little girl who ran ahead and brought her to them. Was that the daughter she lost, she wondered, touching her stomach. Or maybe the daughter inside of her?

She picked up the middle egg, vibrant purple and silver, and carried it with her to the bed, resting it beside her and cuddling it like a child might a pillow, feeling its warmth seep into her skin and her belly, where the babe slumbered. She smiled, feeling calm wash over her like a warm bath.

“Do you have a dragon egg in this bed?”

The voice was muffled, spoken into the back of her neck. She smiled. “Yes.”

“All right.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just checking.”

She held the egg close, knowing this was the egg that belonged to her child. She stiffened when she felt his hand move over her side and rest just under her heart. His fingertips were right on the scar and she felt a pain in her side at the memory. Her eyes closed tight. She reached for the dagger at her bedside and clutched it with her egg, holding them both like the child and their blanket or their pillow.

It was still wrong of her to have to rely on it, but she couldn’t bring herself to let it go just yet. She relaxed when he shifted back against her again, his breath warm on her neck and his large hand now on her hip, keeping her still. She thought of the baby they created and why he might try to harm her now, especially after all this, and she knew he wouldn’t, but she was still so scared.

She swallowed hard, pushing away the pain and the images that flashed in her mind of Rhaego and her unborn daughter with him. Of the curse the blood witch chanted. The screams of the witch as she burned. And the screams of all the people she burned, haunting her and chasing her even as she tried to move on. She clutched her stomach with her free hand, her knees drawing up a bit to continue to cradle it, trying to hide from the terrors of the world and the terrors she had inflicted on it.

Please, she begged, if there are any gods there, let this baby live. Even if I have to die.

And as she fell asleep, she wondered if that was what her mother had dreamed. She sighed and thought of the woman she had never seen and what kind of woman she must have been to love her so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews!
> 
> Next time: Jon bungles a proposal; Dany shows Jon a surprise, but he has one for her too.
> 
> Next next time: Dany and Jon marry under the Old Gods...and in the Free Folk way too. ;)


	28. Proposals (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon screws up; Dany and Jon surprise each other on their island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple chapters are going to be fluffer-nutter-butter just FYI. 
> 
> Although we will see dark!Jon at least once more before the story ends.

“We have to get married.”

It came out of his mouth as though he were asking her to pass him the jug of water, which she did, in between small bites of the fruit and cheese on her plate. He took the jug and set it aside, staring at her expectedly. She finished the bite of pear she had just taken. “All right,” she said, as though he had also just asked her about the weather outside. “I’ll take it under consideration.” She pretended to ponder and then her hard gaze dropped to his. Her voice flat. “No.”

He swore he almost dropped his utensils like a child being denied a toy. “Dany! We have to get married! Our baby cannot be a bast—“

She interrupted, her finger pointing at him. “I swear to all the gods I don’t believe in Jon Snow, if you say the word I think you are going to say, you shall never see this child from the moment I push it out of my body!” she exclaimed, throwing down the piece of apple she had just picked up. She pushed her chair from the table and turned, storming off as fast as she could, being six months heavy with their baby.

He sighed and looked over at Ghost, who glared at him and stood, trotting after her. That did not go well. “You failed,” Grey Worm announced. 

He turned quickly, watching the commander walk towards him. “How long were you there?” he asked.

“Enough time.” Grey Worm smiled, almost pleased. “You how do you say…?” He widened his eyes slightly, his lip curved up. “Fucked up?”

Yes, he definitely did that. He sighed, muttering to himself. “Perfect…just perfect.” He waited a moment and then went off to find Eddarion. He needed to clear his head. Figure out how to salvage this. He walked out of the castle and down the spiral staircase that led to the street which took you to one of the main ‘squares’ he supposed. He had no protection, not even Longclaw, but he didn’t need it here in Valyria. 

It was rather sparsely populated and he did not anticipate many moving to live here. Many came and left after a short time, unable to handle the powerful magic that lurked beneath the surface of the craggy island. There were still occasional eruptions, sometimes he saw a glow of red through the fog of the Fourteen Flames. Maybe there were dragons still here, he thought, beneath the fires, waiting to be found. He glanced up at the castle, his home. Well, sort of his home. 

He looked up again; Arrax and Dreamfyre were flying together, both of them a bonded pair. Silverwing was in Volantis, the protector of the city. Somehow she connected to all of them in her mind, could call them forth and send them out. Wildfyre was somewhat of a messenger, almost like a raven. There was Volantys of course too. There was another two eggs she had pulled from the Shadowlands, beyond the three she kept with her at all times. 

I wonder when it will be their time, he thought, frowning slightly. He looked up again, seeing Eddarion flying towards him. _Māzigon kesīr_, he thought. The dragon immediately connected to his mind and swooped down, letting out a roar when he hit the ground. He shifted his weight and then let out another roar. Jon reached and lightly pet his side. “I know,” he mumbled. “I’m a fool.” 

The dragon hit him lightly, which still had him going sideways a bit. He sighed. I have to fix this, he thought, climbing onto the back of the dragon and flying him up to the balcony of her room. He climbed off the dragon with ease, hopping onto the stone. She looked up over her desk and rolled her eyes. “I have a door.”

“I like this way. The dragonriders of Old Valyria had a smart idea to just have these alcoves,” he said. He walked over and sat across from her at the desk. He closed his eyes. “I told you about Catelyn Stark.”

She set down her quill and folded her hands on the desk. “Yes,” she whispered. She scowled. “And while I am sorry she died such a terrible way, I would kill her myself for what she did to you.”

“I told you, she was…protecting her family,” he mumbled. In the end for nothing. He had no claim to Winterfell; he just had a claim to the Iron Throne. He glanced at her stomach, far more pronounced than it ever was the way her dresses were cut now. He smiled to himself, slightly proud. I did that, he thought, lifting his eyes to meet hers. He sighed. “I also told you that I would never put what I was on another child. Dany it isn’t just…I meant it.” He smiled a little. “When I was fifteen I tried with one of the women from the village.” He shrugged at her peculiar little smile. “I was fifteen. Robb had already done it. Theon was well on his way to fathering bastards across the North. I thought I could do it but…I just thought of a child walking through life, unable to live on the same floor as his family or go into a feast.” 

She shook her head, whispering. “Jon I…I understand.”

“But do you? I know I messed up…”

Interrupting, she pushed back her chair. “I messed up.” She walked around the desk and lowered herself onto his knees. She placed her arm around his neck, lowering her forehead to his and closed her eyes. “I will marry you Jon Snow,” she said with a tiny smile. “But only if you ask me properly.”

He looped his arms around her, holding her close. “Will you marry me Daenerys Targaryen?” he murmured against her lips.

Her fingers pushed through his hair, curling into the nape of his neck. “Yes I will,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open and her eyebrow arching. “Aegon Targaryen.”

I am not a bastard, he thought, not really. He kissed her again, long and slow, and laughed when he felt something against his stomach. Like a weird little flutter. His hand went to where hers was, between them and pressing to her lower abdomen. His heart flew into his throat. “Was that…?”

She nodded, giggling as he wrapped his arms back around her. “Yes,” she said, touching her stomach again and looking down where the feeling was. She beamed; a ray of sunshine with her silver hair and bright smile. “It likes you.”

I should hope so, he thought with an odd smile, his hand gently going to the bump again. He felt the flutter against his palm. Oh gods, he thought, his mouth falling ajar in awe. She was moving. Dany refused to acknowledge that their child was a girl, but he knew. He knew it was a girl, who would be just like her mother. He smiled again, feeling like a stupid fool. “She’s happy,” he murmured. 

Her left hand covered his again on her stomach, but with her right hand she gripped his chin, lifting his face up. Her thumb brushed over his lower lip and her violet eyes were fiery. “I want you to know you were never a bastard to me.” She continued. “I met you when you were a king. You are still a king. You were a king even when you drove a knife into me. And when you die, you will die a king. You were never a bastard, no matter what the North or your family or you think.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you still feel that knowing you never were one to begin with?”

It didn’t matter that he knew he was never a real bastard. For his entire life he was one in name. “I suppose it could have been worse,” he murmured. 

“And how?” She snorted. “You were shunned.”

“He could have raised me his nephew, but then who would my father be?” he echoed. “Ned could have lied and said someone forced Lyanna Stark to marry them and I could have some name, but…it would invite questions. I had a family Dany. I had brothers and sisters and I had a father…he may not have been the father to me that he was to Robb, but I had it better than most.” He smiled again; he’d long come to terms with his childhood.

A question flickered over her forehead and her nose wrinkled. “The idea of Ned Stark fathering a bastard didn’t invite more questions than answers?”

“I’m sure it did, but that’s the thing isn’t it?”

“What?”

He wrapped his arm around her waist and came to stand behind her, his chin dropping to her shoulder. “The men aren’t shamed for their bastards the way the bastards are.”

“You are very wise Jon Snow.” She covered his hands again, which now were cradling her stomach. She tilted her head back and her lips brushed against the pulse in his throat. “Our child will be a Targaryen. Blood of the dragon and the wolf.”

A trueborn Targaryen, he thought, smiling a little. He was never a Stark. He learned that the hard way. “Where will we marry,” he murmured into her soft skin. He already was pushing his need to marry on her, but he knew she did not believe in gods. It could be a Dothraki wedding ceremony, he thought, but she had already had one of those. 

“In a godswood.” She turned in his arms and at his surprised look, she smirked. “I have my ways Jon Snow. I have a weirwood tree for you.” His eyes widened. How was that possible here? There were no trees south of the Neck. Or if there were, they would not be able to get to them. “Would you like to visit it?”

His heart leaped into his throat; if he had the chance to see an actual hearttree with her…he nodded and let go of her, watching as she went over to the door and heard her call for Grey Worm, she would be traveling later that day. Travel? He turned and frowned at her. “Can you still travel?”

“I am going to pretend you did not just say that Jon.” She smirked, reaching into the chest at the end of the bed and removing some dresses. “I can do anything. I can even fight still.”

“But you won’t,” he warned. He did not want her swinging Dark Sister around with his child in her belly. Too many things could go wrong. 

She smirked, tossing another dress into one of the lighter trunks. “Fine. I will not.”

They spent the rest of the day packing, but for where, he wasn’t sure. He saw some of the Dothraki bringing out the harnesses they used for the dragons to hold trunks and other supplies. He notices she is getting warmer clothing and tugs out his cloak, which has become almost a second skin to him in the last couple of years. The Shadow, they called him, not realizing what the true shadow was. He whistled for Ghost, who slunk out from the side of a column, resigned to his fate in the harness.

The protectiveness of Ghost over Dany and their child was more from the wolf he had ever seen. He knew Ghost would kill for him; had been at his side the two days he lay dead in Castle Black, when all had already left him. He was basically Dany’s wolf the last couple of months. There was no way she would be leaving without him. 

The hatchlings were too small to travel a long distance on their own, so they stayed with Silverwing, who did not care for cold climates. He flew after her on Eddarion, Drogon getting so far ahead at some points he wasn’t even sure where she was going. He followed her and realized it with a smile when they crossed Braavos and went straight to the North.

The day turns to night and still they travel, finally arriving later the following day, descending to the clearing on their island, that seems to be perfectly formed for two full-grown dragons to land. He helped her off Drogon, to her displeasure, and unbuckled the trunks, wondering just how long they were staying. It became clear when he removed the thick leather hides and pelts that made up the Dothraki tents. 

By the end of the day, they had the tent up and a fire in the center and also outside of it, with her favorite pillows and furs set up on the pallet for their bed. There is quite a chill in the air, it is downright cold, and he almost cries in happiness, feeling like his blood is finally where it belongs. He bundles her in the cloak, sitting beside her in front of the fire. “You aren’t cold?” she asks, chewing on some dried fruit. 

“No, this is balmy.”

“I can see my breath!” For emphasis, she blew a hot puff of breath, which came out as a thin vapor. She smiled, reaching up for the collar of his jerkin, tugging him in for a kiss. After a moment, she broke away and offered her hands silently. He helped her up, steadying her as she swayed slightly. 

They began to walk, with her leading the way. He knew what lay beyond the other side of the clearing and was excited to show her soon. First though, the godswood, he thought with his heart hammering in his chest. He followed her and they broke through the trees, where it stood. A white weirwood, with the red sap smiling at him from the face in the bark. The leaves were also blood-red and he reached up, lightly touching one that hung low on the branch. Gods, he thought, turning to face her. 

She was simply smiling at him. “How did you do this?” he whispered.

“I have my ways,” she teased. She took his hands into hers, squeezing hard. He wrapped them up into his, feeling her cold skin and trying to warm it up. For someone who ran hot, she really did not like the cold. She looked over at the face in the trunk, whispering. “Kinvara bewitched it…she is pretty sure that he can’t see through it and…and even if he could, he would probably need to know where to look and who would think of a godswood on an island in the middle of the Shivering Sea?”

Very good point, he thought, letting go of her and walking to the trunk. He remembered his father, sitting at the base of the great weirwood in Winterfell, standing long before the castle itself, as old as the Children of the Forest. He did not think this one was as old, but he felt the power and closed his eyes, praying and reflecting for a moment. 

Thank you, he thought. Just…thank you.

He stood and she was right there beside him. Now it was his turn to surprise her, he thought, taking her hands. “Where are we going?” she laughed, hurrying after him as best she could. She waddled like a duck, which he knew better than to say to her, but which he found absolutely charming. 

On the other side of the clearing there was another path, which he used to take her to the surprise he had in store for her. He paused, turning and waiting a second, reaching under the neck of his jerkin and pulling off the black scarf he used to cover his face when he was with her at various meetings and events. He walked behind her and she laughed, her hands going up to steady herself when he wrapped it around her eyes. “Stop trying to look,” he instructed.

“Jon Snow I am going to fall down and then what will you think about this?”

“No you won’t fall, I got you…step.” He took her hands, slowly guiding her over the last few steps and into the large area where a few years before they found the island. Where they stood and imagined a house and a barn and their future. He looked out and then ran ahead, remembering the most important part. “Stop trying to look!” 

Her hand immediately went away from the scarf. “Jon what are you doing? This is silly!”

The final piece went up and he ran back to her, helping her take a few steps forward. “Open,” he whispered, taking the scarf off of her eyes. She kept them closed for a moment and he turned, so he could watch the expression on her face. His stomach flipped and he chewed his lower lip nervously, watching her eyelids slowly lift, revealing her violet eyes. 

They immediately danced, her hands flying to her mouth as a soft cry sounded. “Oh! Oh Jon…” Her hand went for his, squeezing hard. She covered her mouth agai with her free hand, tears starting to fall. She sobbed, turning into him. Gods, he thought, eyes widening in surprise. He did not want to make her cry…she sniffed, wiping her nose with the scarf. “How did you do this?”

The frame of the house was mostly completely and so was the big fireplace and the chimney, built up and fused obsidian, thanks to Eddarion. He had made sure the most important aspect was there for her.

A bright red door.

“How are you doing this?” she whispered. She gaped. “Where did you get the materials?”

“Well…there’s plenty of wood in the trees,” he teased, walking with her towards the door. It was simply propped up in the frame, he had to get some of the brass fastenings from a blacksmith in Qohor before he could finish. There was still plenty of time to finish. He sighed, proud of what had already been accomplished. “I enlisted Grey Worm to find an Unsullied captain to sail from White Harbor with most of the things…Tormund helped too.”

“Yes but how are you building this?”

“Well I left for a couple weeks when you were in Astapor.” He did not like the cities on Dragon’s Bay. They were too hot and stifling for him. “And just…here and there.”

“But you haven’t left my side.”

“Ghost hasn’t left your side,” he reminded her. The white wolf was hovering behind them as a reminder. He smiled and kissed her cheek, whispering. “I have only left when you were sleeping. Or otherwise occupied. Like Astapor with the elections.”

It had been torture for him to leave her for so long, but he did nothing but work when he was here. He had to admit that Grey Worm was a pretty good craftsman, if he decided to give up being a commander of all the Essosi armies. It would take some more time before they could live there, but…he sighed. It was a start. He was no Bran the Builder. 

After a quiet moment, she finally spoke. “You built me a house.”

“Not much of a house yet.”

She turned, her eyebrows furrowed and an almost exasperated look crossing her pale features. “You are building a house Jon. I just…” she trailed off and reached for him, kissing him hard and fast. She wiped her thumb over his jaw. “I am so happy.” She broke away from him and walked over to the door, her hand going to lightly touch the painted wood.

He watched her for a time, as she examined the layout, touching the frame and the stone here and there. She stood in one area of the house, looking up to the sky. There would one day be floors and a staircase. He did not have a lot of time before the babe came, but he hoped to have it finished at least before the baby was older. 

He took his fingers, reaching his arms out and putting his index fingers and thumbs together to form something of a frame. She turned, laughing. “What are you doing?”

“Framing you…like a painting.” He dropped his hands to his sides, waiting for her to walk over. Waddle, he thought with a tiny smile. He looped his arms around her waist. “You make quite an image there.”

“How so?”

“Well…” He touched each item in turn. “Your sword…dagger…braids…furs…baby.” He kissed her lightly. “Warrior queen.” He cocked his head slightly, remembering a piece of history. “They say that when Visenya was near to birth with Maegor she still flew Vhagar into battle.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his again, whispering a moment later. “But Aegon loved Rhaenys the most.”

That he did. They say she was his favorite wife, the one who was more classically beautiful, who could sing and paint and listened to the people. Who still rode her dragon and fought with daggers. “He did,” he said.

Another kiss this time, deeper. Eyes hooding with desire. “Who do you love the most Aegon?” she whispered.

This time it was his turn to pull her to him in a heated kiss. The way she said his true name did something to him. He wasn’t sure what it was, it was just…fire. “You,” he breathed. He broke away again, taking a few steadying breaths as she did the same. I thought I loved the Starks more. The North. I loved them more and trusted them more that I killed you for it. He broke away, his forehead touching hers and their hands entwined. 

Between them her belly pressed against his. He swore he could feel the baby. Their daughter, he was sure of it, no matter what she said. He closed his eyes tight. He understood how she could never forgive him, if she never did, for what he had done to her. They were no longer his family. He would not kill for them again. He had lost himself and lost any hope at his future, but the gods saw fit to grant him another chance. 

Their daughter kicked, a hard swift one that even he could feel. She laughed against his mouth. “I think she’s hungry,” she muttered against his mouth. 

Must be a sign of the future, he thought, tearing himself away from her and wrapping his arm around her as they walked back to their camp. “Well then let’s feed the little dragon,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the reviews!
> 
> Next time: Beneath a weirwood, Jon and Dany exchange vows; Dany takes Jon the 'free folk' way as her husband.
> 
> Next next time: Jon acts on Dany's behalf during a trial; Dany goes to Vaes Dothrak.
> 
> Next next next time: While in labor, Dany encounters a woman she never thought she'd meet; Jon goes mad again.


	29. The Laughing Tree (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon marry beneath the hearttree; Jon takes Dany his wife the free-folk way; a flashback reveals Tormund's excitement at a Dragon Baby.

“Gods,” Dany mumbled, fighting to get up from her seated position. She would not call for Jon, she did not care if she had to roll like an egg on its side to try to force herself up from the log. She did not even think she was that large, it was just that she did not have as great of balance any longer. Or something like that. Plus she was very low to the ground. It may have been a mistake to sit this far down. She finally came to her feet, pumping her arms into the air in success at her achievement.

When her gaze dropped from the sky, she saw Ghost staring at her like she had three heads. 

Oh you, she thought, waving her hand at him. She glanced at the path that led to their home, wanting to see what Jon had been working on the past couple months. There had been all manner of visitors to the island from her most loyal Dothraki, Unsullied, and even Tormund. She smiled in memory at when Tormund had arrived.

\--

“Jon why are you so worried? Everything will be fine.” Drogon had gone off earlier that morning and she knew he was close, she could feel the tether he had with her heart. They were close; he had flown off to help escort the ship from White Harbor, with its simple black sails, just a random ship on its way south. 

Nevermind it carried more of her most loyal advisors and the man she knew he considered his best friend. She rubbed her side, feeling a slight pain. They had been happening more frequently and she took several deep breaths to still herself. She looked back at Jon, who was pacing around their campsite. Eddarion let out an irritated cry, no doubt also picking up on his rider’s anxiety.

He glanced at her. “I’m just…I don’t want anyone in White Harbor to follow him.”

“He is just a member of the free folk, doing what he needs to do.”

“Most people know he fought with me.” 

She thought of his bitch sister, but kept the adjective to herself, knowing he was still very sensitive to any mention of his family. Sansa no doubt could have cared less about the Free Folk. She still referred to them as wildlings, the last time Dany had been in her presence. She would not think to follow Tormund, because she wouldn’t have realized that he was the one who knew most of Jon’s whereabouts. If she was even looking.

Something told her Sansa wasn’t; Jon was the threat to her rule in more ways than one, she got rid of him and used his emotions and family loyalty against him. The dragon within him came out more often now, to her pleasure, but there were times where he was the sullen, lonely man who had walked into the hall on Dragonstone.

They were coming to help finish off the rest of the house, which she had been forbidden from seeing. She spent her time working on her plan to encourage more education, setting up schools throughout her cities. Drogon flew back and forth with her messages, holding a box in his claw that contained all she needed people to know and they sent back the same. She also spent her time working on baby linens, which the Dothraki women and midwives had shown her how to do. It was really simple, but she was wondering if she had not gone overboard.

And sometimes the dark thoughts crept in and she wondered if she would even need them. 

This morning there was a change in the wind and she knew they would arrive soon, even if Drogon hadn’t shown up too. She reached her hand up and Jon fell beside her onto the pillows and cushions, idly kissing her temple. She ran her fingers over his knuckles, frowning at the bruises marring his skin, which she hadn’t noticed before. “Who did you punch?” she wondered. She sighed. “Did this have to do with why you left the other day?”

He opened and closed his fist and briefly smiled. “You told me that there was a bit of a disagreement between the Second Sons leadership in Meereen.” He paused again. “I did not like what Daario said.”

Oh gods, she thought, sighing. She had told him she’d been in a sexual relationship with Daario before she left for Westeros, but she felt nothing for him. It hadn’t bothered him as much as she thought it would, but apparently Daario had said something to trigger him. “Does he still speak?” she asked.

“Well he is missing a couple teeth.”

“Gods Jon.” She merely smiled, finding his possessive side somewhat attractive. She kissed him, murmuring. “I should have liked to have seen it.”

“Me punching Daario?”

She nipped his bottom lip, eliciting a low growl in the back of his throat. “The dragon,” she murmured. Although sometimes it was hard for her to determine if it was the wolf within or the dragon within that caused him to lash out the way he did sometimes. Or maybe it was just both.

They sat for a few more moments until Eddarion called out, pushing off from the ground and flying away. Ghost sat up, looking at the dragon as it flew away. He got to his feet and turned to look back at them, as though waiting. “I guess that is our cue,” he said, getting up and taking her hands, helping her to his feet. He touched the side of her stomach. She smiled; he could never get enough of the bump, she thought, glancing at it. 

Together they went down the path he’d cleared to the small beach where the dinghy from the ship could arrive; she already saw them heading to shore from the ship, moored out in the small bay that formed on this part of the island. She could see Tormund’s flaming red hair and laughed when he caught sight of them and stood, almost sending the small craft on its end. 

“Idiot,” Jon muttered, but she could see his smile as he broke away from her and hurried down the stone steps he’d made on the side of the path. He waded into the water, helping pull the craft ashore. 

A couple of the Dothraki hopped out, as did one of the Unsullied from the ship, and Tormund practically threw himself out. “Crow!”

She laughed, standing to the side, her arms below her stomach. She wore her standard fare of her breeches, boots, and a long coat, which happened to stop just above her stomach in the front and then a long tunic beneath that flared down over her belly and to her knees. It was comfortable for her to move around, most of her dresses now too tight on her waist. She turned and greeted her Dothraki, inquiring as to their journey and whether they needed anything.

They told her they would sooner like to be on land, the horses that were on the ship would be arriving momentarily and they needed to get the camp set up. She gestured for them to please continue, switching to Valyrian for the Unsullied. After she had sent him on his way to follow the Dothraki, she finally turned around and Tormund broke away from Jon.

He looked at her, eyes wide behind his wild red hair and beard. He gestured with both hands to her stomach and she laughed, smiling and then pointed both fingers to it before wrapping her arms under it. He let out a huge yell and then flung his arm around Jon’s neck, pinning him and starting to hit him. “You stupid fucking bastard! Could have told me!”

She laughed, walking towards Tormund who only let go when Jon kneed him int eh groin, but it didn’t stop the giant man from running to her and sweeping her up, planting a wet, scratchy kiss on her lips. “Are you sure you want children with this fucker?” he asked, throwing a thumb over his shoulder towards him.

“I think so.”

“Fuck Crow! You don’t talk to me anymore to let me know these things?!”

“Well you know,” he mumbled, scratching at his head, but she could tell he was slightly embarrassed even though there was no one around, just another dinghy arriving with two more Unsullied. 

Tormund laughed again and gave her another smacking kiss. “Dragon babies!” he whooped. He then immediately tackled Jon. “Crow not a virgin anymore! Now there’s proof!”

She could only laugh, walking off beside Tormund as they went up towards the path to the camp. Jon walked behind them, still flushed pink from embarrassment at Tormund’s preening and calling out his lack of virginity, which she could have told Tormund ages ago, given how good at ‘making babies’ as Jon was. Which only would have embarrassed him more, but I would give her a laugh. 

She was about to ask Tormund how the journey from White Harbor was, when out of nowhere Jon came up to the side and with two strong arms pushed the unsuspecting man clear off the edge of the path. “Tormund!” she screamed, watching him laugh as he crashed into the water below. She whipped to Jon, who merely smiled. She punched his shoulder. “Why did you do that?”

“He deserved it.”

“Well go help him!”

“Of course my queen,” he said, kissing her cheek and then to her horror he jumped off the edge of the cliff and splashed into the water after his friend. She stared, shaking her head as they tried to drown each other for a few moments and then they swam to the edge, climbed up onto the beach, hit each other a few more times and then began to walk back up the path, shaking their wet and ruined cloaks and boots out. 

She closed her eyes, took a few steadying breaths, and touched the side of her stomach. Men were so strange, she thought, turning and walking off before they caught up to her. Ghost agreed, almost rolling his red eyes as he trotted after her.

\--

She smiled from her memory, glancing over at the path. She lifted her face back up to the sky, noting the setting sun. They had decided it would be tonight and well, it would just be them. She should at least go see if he was ready…

The crew had left, after hearing word that there was a possible master uprising in Yunkai. She wanted to go, but Grey Worm had wisely convinced her it was best for her to stay. Since she trusted him with her life, she knew that Grey Worm and Rono would do their best to stop the uprising, if the Second Sons needed the help, of course. She walked towards the house, but the sound of footsteps on the path had her turning quickly, trying to rush back to the tent unnoticed. 

“Stop right there!”

She cringed. “You caught me.”

“It is supposed to be a surprise when it is done.” He marched her back to their camp, helping her down into a chair and covering her with a light blanket. It was early evening and she did not feel the chill just yet. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, tucking it back behind her ear. His gray eyes, teasing a moment before, turned soft and began to melt. “Are you alright?”

He really could read her mind sometimes, she thought, peering up at him. He knelt beside her, holding her hand in his. She threaded her fingers around his and then smoothed them over his palm, studying the burn scar there. “I was thinking…just…people that are gone.” The baby made her think of them. They were going to be married and yet…yet she did not have the people she most wanted.

She sighed, meeting his concerned eyes. “I wish Missandei were here.” The woman who was her sister, her best friend, advisor…everything she wished she had growing up. Cut down by a woman as mad as herself and in the chains she had fought so hard to break. “She could do my braids.” Her braids were already done. As were his. 

The fact he kept his curls pulled into the braids when he was with the Dothraki warmed her heart in more ways than she ever thought possible. He was one of her people and they accepted him as well. She squeezed his hand. He frowned. “Are you alright with this Dany? This is just for me I mean…we do not have to…”

Her finger stilled his lips. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head with a soft smile. This was for him, yes, but in a way it was for her as well. She might not believe in gods but they were going to be together and raise their child together. This was for him and she would be a part of it. “Just…” She wrinkled her nose. “Just don’t look yet.”

“Look at what?”

“Well…tonight right?” It would be a full moon. She wanted it to be on a full moon, so they could see each other and the stars. So all of her children and her family could be present. 

He nodded. “Yes.”

“So…go get yourself ready and I will do the same. You cannot peek.” She pushed up to her feet, only with a slight bit of help from him, and disappeared into the tent with a girlish giggle. She took a deep breath once she was inside and reached for a box within the trunk, lifting out the dress made for her by one of the best seamstresses in Myr. 

While he did whatever it was he needed to do, probably just put water on his face or something, she changed into the dove gray flowing gown, the waist embroidered with a velvet band that rose on her stomach. She pulled on the coat that went over it, snapping it up. The coat was a darker gray, with a hint of red at the cuffs and neck. She wore her silver dragon brooch, which pinned the long red sash to her shoulder. She took a deep breath and looked at her reflection in the small mirror she brought with her and smiled. Her hair had grown long, pulled into multiple braids and twisted at the base of her neck into a long tail. 

Before she went outside, she waited a moment, her eyes closing. She had been terrified on the morning of her first marriage. She didn’t know what to expect, she was scared of her shadow, and here was a hulking horseman who didn’t speak her language, who had unfamiliar customs, and who was only marrying her because her brother had made a bargain with him. She had been hurt and abused and she did not know what she was supposed to have thought her wedding should be. 

And then there was the thought that Daario could maybe be her husband. He clearly wanted it, but he was just a way for her to occupy her time when she wasn’t ruling. She was fully prepared to make a marriage contract when she got to Westeros—she wasn’t sure with what family, but she knew it would be the best way to get the throne. Anything for the throne.

And then there was Jon. She considered it, thought about it on the boat and never told him, what if they married? They could unite the North to the South. It would solve all kinds of problems, but…it was not meant to be. Until now, she supposed. 

She stepped out of the tent and froze in place, staring at the image he projected. He’d removed his regular black, gray, or brown leathers and tunic and jerkin. Instead he wore black velvet with black leather. The collar at his neck had silver wolves embroidered in it. It was the outfit he usually wore for her fancy feasts in Valyria, but she noticed something different, her eyes zeroing in on the cuffs. Red peeked from underneath. It also peeked from the neck. His tunic was bright red.

We are a pair, she thought. He smiled. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he whispered.

Her cheek flushed pink and warm. Jon was not one for those types of flowing sentiments. She savored it for a moment and then stepped towards him, her bare hands taking his. She didn’t want to wear gloves; she wanted to feel him. “Thank you, you are handsome…black is your color.”

He only smiled. She hesitated for a moment and then reached into her pocket. “I understand in Westerosi weddings…well, the Faith of the Seven weddings, I don’t know about the Old Gods, but…there’s a marriage cloak and well, since I don’t have one of those, I thought…” she trailed off and pressed the steel clasp into his hand.

He frowned and turned it over in his palm. The wolf sigil had been changed a bit; he was not a Stark, but he was still a wolf. It was howling, instead of just the head. He smiled at it, his thumb running across the Valyrian steel. He nodded in understanding. “You sure?” he murmured.

“I am,” she whispered. She turned and they began to walk towards the godswood. As they walked, her dress dragging on the leaves, she thought of the ones not there. Jorah and Missandei and Viserys and Rhaegar. He must have sensed her pain and he placed his arm around her. She blinked back tears. “I think Missandei would have been happy about the baby.”

He pressed his lips to her temple again. “I think she would have been overjoyed,” he whispered.

“The gods are cruel. They took her from her freedom. She died in chains.”

“You are going to marry before those gods, are you sure about this?” He frowned again. He was really worried about what she thought of this. Silly man.

She patted his chest in comfort. “Jon, I am doing this because I want to do this, not because of gods or no gods.” Their child was both a dragon and a wolf and would be raised as such, she thought. This was no different for her than it was for him to follow Dothraki traditions. 

They emerge in the godswood. The sun has gone down, but the orange light still glows around the edges of the horizon. The moon shines off the weirwood, almost blinding. She was still worried about it, still hoping the eyes smiling at her from the trunk did not belong to the Broken King. “Well we will find out soon if it doesn’t work,” he murmured.

“You prayed before a tree in the North. If we did not find out after that, we should be alright,” she said. They approached the weirwood and she was reminding how stunning they were. The peace they seemed to wash over anyone standing beneath the red leaves. The face smiled at them or maybe it was crying. “I always thought they were crying, which is sad for something called a heart tree.”

Jon nodded, but a smile tugged on his lips. “Did I ever tell you the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree?”

“No.”

So he told her. She stood with her hands in his as the moon rose in the night sky and everything glowed cool around them. The Knight of the Laughing Tree bested three squires who happened to be the ones who had targeted a crannogman of the Neck. No one knew who the mysterious knight was, but when the Mad King demanded their identity, the knight ran off and Rhaegar Targaryen was sent to find them. “All he found was a shield with the laughing tree,” he finished.

And then he crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty. “That was the day the smiles died,” she murmured. She frowned. It was obvious to her, but was it to him? She lifted her face, whispering. “Jon. Did anyone ever find out who that knight was?”

He shook his head, his face still on the tree. “No,” he replied. “No one ever knew.”

“The knight was small and thin…the knight had mismatched armor and fought like they danced,” she said, repeating his words. She smiled again. “The Laughing Tree. A Northman.” She cocked her head, her brows coming to a point again. “Or perhaps a Northwoman?”

He glanced at her. “I don’t understand.”

“Rhaegar went to find the knight and found only the shield. Not after that, he gave Lyanna Stark the crown of blue winter roses over his wife.” She never understood why her brother would abandoned his family and run off with the woman. Viserys just told her that Rhaegar was a lovesick fool, consumed with prophecy and destiny. She did not realize until she was an adult, until she heard more from people who knew him, that Rhaegar did it maybe because he loved her. And the heart can’t help who it loves. 

Or maybe it was his way of acknowledging the best knight of them all. 

It seemed to give Jon pause. He furrowed his brow and looked at the ground. A smile tugged on his lips. “They said she had the wolf’s blood.”

“And you have both.”

“I would have liked to have known her.” He closed his eyes. “I wanted to know my mother more than anything. Why did she leave me with my father? Did she die? Was she still alive and living somewhere else? Was it more of a shame for her than it was for my father?” He sighed. “And then I found out and I could not even think. The woman they told stories about, who made my father’s face…my uncle’s face…fall in sadness when mentioned…”

Rhaegar was the brother she never knew and the one she wanted to know the most. She squeezed his hands tight in hers. “They’re here,” she said. She lifted her face to the sky. “Up there…in the Nightlands.”

With Missandei, Ser Barristan, Jorah…with them all. Her sons and her daughter. Drogo, even. She faced the tree and took a deep breath. After a long while, she turned to face him. Her hands entwined in his, she took a deep breath, slowly releasing it as she took in his gaze. This man loved her, she thought. Loved her more than anything.

So why did he hurt me so?

The tiny voice in the back of her mind was unwelcome and she pushed it back, lifting her face up to the sky again. It was traditional for the wedding to be conducted at night, he explained to her. Since it was just the two of them, they did not have to do the ritual passing of the bride. She had no father or brother to do so and she was giving herself to him freely. Although…she tilted her head back and they both looked over the tops of the trees to see two dragons peering at them. She supposed Drogon was letting her give herself over to him, so maybe they already had that part done.

“You are mine,” she whispered, shocked at the tears that began to trickle down her face. She could barely speak, his image blurring before her. She took another breath and smiled. Then laughed. He laughed too but she nodded quickly. Do this Dany, you can do this. “You are mine, from this day…” she took another breath. 

“You are mine, from this day,” he said. 

At the same time, they spoke and she felt like her heart exploded inside of her. “Until the end of my days.”

A gasp escaped her when he swept her into his arms, kissing her so deeply she felt it in her toes, her fingers gripping at the collar of his cloak. She broke away a moment later, her eyes fluttering open. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you,” he repeated. He held the sigil in his hands and then reached up, attaching it beside the sash at her shoulder. He turned it slightly. “The marriage cloak is a Faith of the Seven thing.”

“Oh,” she laughed. 

He shrugged again and peered at the smiling face on the tree. “Old Gods of the Forest don’t have rules, but…” he trailed off and turned to look at her again. “There is something I’ve been wanting to do that is a part of the marriage traditions.”

Before she had a chance to say anything or ask any questions, he swept his arms under her knees, lifting her clear off her feet. She yelped, her arm around his neck, laughing. He carried her out of the godswood and she thought he would take her to their tent, but he kept going. She frowned, confused. Even Ghost didn’t seem bothered, trotting after them. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see. Gods you weigh like a sack of rocks.”

She punched his shoulder lightly, laughing. “Shut up.”

They emerged in the clearing where the house was and she would have fallen if he was not holding her. He set her on her feet so she could take everything in. It was done, she thought, staring at the house. It was simple and sweet and everything she ever wanted and had never realized. The red door and the smoke coming from the two chimneys. The obsidian and stone and wooden rafters and thatched roof. And…

Tears just flowed freely; she did not even try to stop them.

A lemon tree right by the door.

“I hate you,” she whispered, spinning against him and kissing him again.

He lifted her back into his arms and kicked open the door, carrying her over the threshold.

\--

“You know Tormund told me something when I said we were getting married.”

She lay on her side, on the big bed that she’d discovered he’d built with his hands, with her favorite sheets and pillows from Valyria. The fire crackled in the hearth and he had brought her three eggs from the chest in the tent and placed them in the embers where they shined like jewels. She stared at the vibrant purple one, the one she was drawn to the most, and merely mumbled to tell him to continue.

He pulled at one of her curls, tugged from her braids. “He said that when the Free Folk marry, a man captures a woman and if she lays with him and stays with him, they’re married.” He paused. “And then if the woman draws a dagger on the man and he fights her off, it’s also a good sign that you are married, because a woman wants a man who will give her strong sons.”

She smiled and rolled in his arms, sighing. “Are you saying that we aren’t married in the Free Folk way? I captured you, Jon Snow.”

“No,” he drawled, pulling the single word out into multiple syllables. He smiled and rested his hand on her stomach. “I think I captured you. I brought you to the North.” He dropped his lips to hers, hot and open-mouthed. His breath was warm and made her bones go limp. “And I laid with you…and you stayed with me.”

“Hmm, yes but I did not fight you off,” she murmured. She thought slightly darkly about that and pushed the thought of it from her mind. Until she remembered something else. 

Hmm, she thought, smiling a little. She slipped her hand under the bed, fumbling for her belt while he kissed her. She bit his lower lip, getting the growl she loved, and knowing he was distracted, she finally found what she was fumbling for. 

In a quick moment, she whipped her hand out and pressed the dagger against his neck, very lightly, but it was probably enough. His eyes widened and he let go, shocked. She arched an eyebrow and waited. The gray in his eyes disappeared to black and she could no longer hear his breathing. Oh no, she suddenly thought, glancing at the dagger in her hand. 

The one he’d used to kill her. 

It may have been too much, she suddenly realized, her eyes widening slightly. Oh gods Dany what did you just do?

Before she could open her mouth and drop the dagger and begin apologizing for clearly misreading the situation, she yelped, his hand snatching her wrist and twisting it gently, the dagger falling backwards from her limp fingers and onto the floor. She weakly pushed him back, but she was too busy smiling, happy he understood what she had done. He rolled so that he was over her, rising up on his arms to avoid pressing against the baby. His mouth covered hers, claiming her. 

Mine, he may as well have said.

She pulled him against her, moving so that he was beside her, his hand stroking over her upper arm and all but pinning her to the bed. After another long kiss, she smiled against his lips and nuzzled his nose. “I guess I’m your free folk wife,” she murmured.

“Guess you are,” he replied with a grin, kissing her again. She was falling into it once more, her entire mind going blank and body fuzzy when he suddenly climbed out of the bed, leaving her cold and irritated at his sudden absence. He grabbed his cloak, pulling it on over his naked body. “Don’t move, I forgot something.”

She rolled her eyes. “Where am I supposed to go?” Ghost pushed open the door once he left, jumping up onto the bed and taking his spot. She curled her fingers into the wolf’s neck, smiling at his contented expression. “I do not think he is going to like you taking his place, but to be honest, I don’t mind, he is being quite strange.” He was being wonderful, but she would not tell Jon that. She continued to stroke Ghost’s head, feeling blissful and content. 

This had to be a dream, she thought, gazing into the fire at the eggs. It was a beautiful dream. One she never wanted to wake from.

The door pushed open again and he came in, pushing Ghost off the bed and climbing back under the blankets and furs, cuddling against her. She moved into him, wondering what he was hiding behind his back. “Do you have something for me?” she asked, teasing. 

Without saying a word, Jon removed his hand and presented her with the gift. 

A blue winter rose.

He rested it on top of her stomach, the petals silky and cool. It smelled so sweet, she thought, her eyes closing at the meaning it represented. “How did you…” she began, going to take the rose.

“Tormund. I kept it in a glass box to keep it cool and blue.”

Gods, she thought, reaching to press her forehead to his, clutching the rose so tight she feared she might break it. She could not say anything that had not already been said, so she kept the rose close and pulled him down to her face, putting everything she felt into the kiss she gave him. 

\--

A few weeks later, sitting at the beautiful wooden table that Jon had made for her, in front of the fire in her new home, the only home she truly wanted, she thought about something that had been in her mind for a time. She looked out the window, seeing Jon outside, splitting a tree trunk and working on making a crib for their baby.

She sighed, watching him work for a moment; it was very distracting. Even in the chill he had removed his shirt and his hair was tied from his face, with sweaty tendrils falling into his eyes occasionally as he split off pieces of wood from the fallen trunk. Hmm, she thought, tearing her gaze away and to the parchment in front of her.

Letters aside, she had something she wanted to work on. Something she wanted to bring to his attention. Maybe after the baby was born. She studied the wolf brooch and set it in front of her, thinking. Then, she began to draw, following the lines as best as she could. 

When she finished, she studied the sigil. It would do, she thought, smiling as she brought her folded hands to her lips. They were one now. Dragon and wolf. Wolf and dragon. 

A red three-headed dragon snarling like it had for centuries. 

Only this time with a howling wolf piercing through the center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this and briefly mentioned Tormund's reaction, but then thought it would be fun to see the whole thing play out, which is why there's like a random flashback in the middle of the chapter. Also, Jon should have heard a bit about the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, maybe from Benjen at some point, and of course Dany would figure who it was almost instantly.
> 
> Next time: Jon goes dark when he is on an assignment for Dany and starts to think about his other 'home'; Dany goes into labor.


	30. Wake the Dragon (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incident in Lys frightens Jon and makes him question some things; Dany goes into labor.

I do not want to be here. I do not want to be here.

I want to be with Dany, Jon thought, barely listening as a Lyseni master, former master, attempted to plead his case to justify why they were at trial. He was trying to say that he was not in fact still trading in slaves and had not been caught in port with a ship from the North, with innocent women who he was going to sell off. He was here because he was essentially the face of Dany when she could not be present. 

Grey Worm and Rono usually took on those types of roles, but he was the one with the sword. He was the one with the mystery and the fear, she had convinced him, when she told him to leave her at the island with Tormund and go do his duty. “For your queen,” she told him. 

So he got onto the back of Eddarion and flew off to Lys, meeting Grey Worm and Rono who were already present. He did not speak either of their languages well enough to truly communicate, but they were all on the same page with this pathetic excuse for a human.

The master had to die.

Jon sat at the table, his hood over his head, sweating in his black leather and cloak. He had the mask over his mouth, given how close he was to the man, and while Grey Worm spoke to him in Valyrian, he studied the letters that Rono had found in the master’s study a moment before. There was a seal that he did not recognize, but the flower of The Reach was unmistakable. 

As were the words Highgarden and Lord Bronn of the Blackwater.

He lifted his eyes when he heard Grey Worm refer to him by the name he used when he was out and about. _Zaldrīzes._ Dragon. He tugged the mask off his mouth, his voice cold. “Tell him there will be no slaves and if he knows what is good for him, we will let him live so he can tell Lord Bronn of Highgarden to fuck off or he will learn what it means to anger the dragon.”

Grey Worm barely hid a smile and turned to translate, but the master merely snorted and laughed. “I speak Common Tongue,” he spat. He smirked. “They call you Dragon to your face, but we call you Shadow. You are no dragon.” He smiled at the wolf pommel of Longclaw. “You are the one who killed Queen. Do they all know?”

Dany told him once that he had a giveaway when he was getting angry and riled up. His right fingertips would begin tapping on whatever surface was available. He did not realize it until after the master had continued to complain about Dany as queen that his fingers were beginning to speed up in their tapping, to the point where Grey Worm shot him a look. He stilled for a moment and then started tapping.

Grey Worm turned to the master. “Watch out.”

“What out for what?” The master scowled. “I will not stop. Queen is missing and I can do what I want. Fuck the laws.”

He lifted his gray eyes, now black with suppressed rage. “What?” he murmured.

The master continued. “I took the girls because Lord Bronn likes the Northern ones. Likes their hair. Queen in North do shit all to stop them, no one on the coast to stop.” He laughed again. He threw his hand out. “And now a Northern bastard tells me what to do? Fuck you and fuck the Queen of Essos. I do what I want, I am old Valyrian too!”

That was all it took. The fingers stopped. Grey Worm stilled and Rono chuckled behind him. He gazed at his fingers and did not look up. “Seize him,” he said, his voice soft.

Grey Worm nodded to Rono, who happily strode over and grabbed the arms of the master with his, looping them back behind him and muscling the straining master to his feet. “Unhand me!” he bellowed, kicking out, but the Dothraki was about three times his size and did not flinch at the weak movements. He continued to yell. “Your bitch queen is messing with the wrong people! She thinks she can tell us what to do! Sends eunuchs and bastards and savages instead of herself! Bet she can’t even walk she’s been fucking all of you!”

That did it. 

He felt something snap inside, but the rage was still below the surface. The master could have lived, he thought, removing the hood from his head. The master’s eyes widened in surprise at the full sight of him. He did not fear anyone finding out what he looked like though. The master wouldn’t be speaking in a moment. He did not break stride, even as he leaned to grab the knife he kept in his boot out. He came to the master’s side and smiled a little. 

Stupid fool.

He nodded to Rono, who grinned and pried open the master’s mouth. 

The screams did nothing to him as he removed the master’s tongue with a quick swipe of the blade. Blood spurted everywhere, but he didn’t care, nodding towards the door. “Take him outside,” he instructed Grey Worm, who only smiled and walked with Rono as they dragged the master, now bleeding and his head hanging as he tried to scream in pain. 

He took a seat and studied the letters from Bronn. His fingers began to tap again as he thought about what to do next. A crowd outside began to form and he heard the masses yelling for blood. He could let the master live. No tongue certainly would keep him from running his mouth. However…you could still write with without a tongue. He could cut off his hands….fingers…

No. 

He made up his mind and stood, wanting to take to the skies and burn the entire mansion to the ground. It would make him feel better. It wasn’t just the slavery, it was the fact that they were going to his home. To Westeros. Coming from his home, the North. Sansa didn’t do anything for her people if slavers were combing the shores and taking people to Lys, just to send them to Highgarden. He was furious. Furious with himself too. 

He killed Dany for their freedoms. He knew it the moment he did it that it was wrong and now he was living with that consequence, as were they, only they didn’t realize just how bad they really had it.

He pulled the hood up and his mask. Too many people. He came to a stop outside on the large steps of the manse, not bothering to care about the sea of people who had arrived. Eddarion swooped down and landed on the roof, cracking tiles and screaming, drawn by the thirst for blood and the pounding of his heart. He stood to the side, while Rono had the master pinned to a stone table. “Do you have any last words?” he asked.

The master choked, unable to speak, but Jon simply smiled. “Yes, that is right, I cut out your tongue.” He turned to the crowd and bellowed in his shitty Valyrian. “Let this be a lesson to you! Queen Daenerys does not tolerate slavers!”

He swung the sword, his muscles aching from the work he had been doing on the house, but they were strong enough for Longclaw to whisper through the air and take the head of the master. He did not bother looking at what happened after, sheathing Longclaw and nodding to Eddarion, who roasted the carcass and jumped from his perch. 

He went back into the mansion and found what he was looking for on a desk in another room. A small ornate gold box with trinkets inside, which he flung to the ground, not caring. He dropped the tongue into it and scribbled out a note on the back of the letter from Highgarden and then reached into his cloak, removing a wax seal from one of the pockets.

He ran it through the candle beside him and then stamped hard on the outside of the small folded square of parchment. The three-headed dragon stared up at him and he merely smiled, placing it into the box. He carried it to the hall and found a servant. He presented it. “Deliver this to Highgarden in Westeros,” he ordered. “Remind the Lord there what happens to people who traffic in slaves.”

He swept the cloak around him like smoke, jumping onto Eddarion and taking off, the crowd cheering beneath him. 

\--

“You are leaving already?”

Tormund turned and grinned. “Back so soon?” He glanced at the blood that was still beneath Jon’s nails and merely smiled a little. “Bad day?”

Jon glanced at his nails and shrugged. “A day.” He sighed, leaning against the door. He didn’t really want his friend to leave just yet. He knew though that it was time for him to get back to the North and to Hardhome. He thought of what had occurred in Lys a few days prior. His eyes dropped to the floor. “Tormund…how are things in the North?”

It was the first time he had asked. He said he didn’t want to know that he didn’t care, but he did. Knowing that slavers were on the shores of his home and the Queen there did nothing to stop it…he hadn’t mentioned that part to Dany, who was too busy worrying about the baby and making sure they got to the Dothraki sea in time for the birth. They would be leaving soon.

The larger man paused in his packing, straightening up. He almost touched the ceiling in the low room in the back of the house where he had been sleeping. He turned and gone was the constant jovialness and wide-toothed smile familiar to him. Tormund was serious and sullen. He sighed. “Need some ale for this one Crow.”

“No ale right now,” he murmured. “Just tell me.”

Tormund fell back onto the bed, which moved back a bit at the sudden weight. Jon walked over to stand before the door that led to the side of the house. He did not know if he wanted to hear this but knew he had to. He was ready. “Not good,” Tormund finally said. He lifted his bushy red eyebrows, eyes widening. “Things are fine in the True North. Free folk handle ourselves you know.”

“I do.”

“Your sister sent a raven to Castle Black. Rangers came looking.”

Fuck. He set his jaw. “And?”

“We said you were in the Lands of Always Winter. You had gone to find out information for your brother and you disappeared.”

I guess I have disappeared, he thought. He nodded. “Good, saying I was there for their king.”

Tormund squinted. “Not your king?”

“He was my king for a short time, but lost me when I realized what it meant.” He smirked. “Queen Daenerys is the only one I follow.”

“Clearly,” Tormund said with a brief grin. He sighed again. “They’re hungry and…there’s wars. Lots of wars. Those sailor folk hit the shores…your sister barely holding on to the lands. I don’t understand you kneelers.” He rolled his eyes. “You pick your king or queen and when they do one thing you don’t like, you hate them, rebel against them, and wonder why they go after you.” 

“That’s Westeros.”

“It’s fucked.”

“She did it to herself,” he whispered. It took him a long time to figure it out. Sansa had betrayed him once, twice…he deserved what he got when she did it time and time again and he didn’t believe her to be the sister he grew up with. Dany warned him and he didn’t listen. Ned Stark lost his head, Jon lost his heart. He looked back at Tormund’s frown. 

“Do you think that, really Crow?”

“Yes,” he murmured. 

“You killed the woman you love for your family and you still think that about them?” Tormund pried. 

He smiled. “I am here with the woman I love. The woman I killed.” He nodded towards the door to the rest of the house. “I have Dany. Our baby. Ghost. The dragons. They’re my family now.”

The wildling thumped his chest with a laugh. “And me right?”

Thank gods for Tormund, he thought, happy that the serious conversation had passed. He grinned. “And you.” 

“Good, because I want to see that Little Crow when he’s born. Just to see if you know, he’s really yours.”

He laughed as they walked out of the house. “It’s a girl.”

“Like you know.”

He shrugged. Soon enough. “I’ll be there, so I’ll know soon,” he said with a quick smile. 

Tormund flinched as they left the house. “You gonna’ be there?” He waved his hand, his face paling slightly. “Like…during it all?”

“Well…yeah.”

The other man shuddered, which kind of worried Jon. “Crow I’ve killed people, but child birth is a different thing. Enough free folk women done it and you hear the screams…” he shook again. 

Oh gods. He frowned; he remembered when Catelyn Stark had Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Not much Sansa, he wasn’t that old when she was born. He hadn’t been in the castle for much but he remembered the yelling. Until he was pushed out of the house to go do something with himself and with his siblings so they would not bother the new baby. He and Robb usually just ran away with Theon to go find some trouble. Babies were the last thing on his mind, because he knew that with each legitimate Stark child, he was never going to be one of them.

And he never was, after all.

He looked over at Tormund. “I don’t want to hurt her.” Fuck, he didn’t want Dany to hurt, but he knew she would but…he would be there. Maybe if he was there…he frowned further.

“Face it Crow, you had the fun part. Few minutes or seconds maybe in your case…” A punch to Tormund’s gut at him wheezing and laughing. He pushed back. “But she gets the hard part of that fun.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Take it up with the gods.” 

He sighed. They would know soon enough, he thought, looking over to see Dany at a table, fiddling with some plants and things that had come over with Tormund and the others. He smiled in her direction at how focused she was on whatever it was she was doing with bunches of twigs and leaves and things. Today she ahd left much of her hair down and it was soft and bouncing on her shoulders. She hadn’t cut it in a very long time, to his happiness. He sighed; he felt calmer here. Better than he had in some time.

The ire and the blinding red he saw in Lys during the dealing with the master had all but washed away to soft blues and greens of the island once he returned. Even Eddarion was happier. It was because of her, he thought, sighing again. 

“Something different about you Crow.” Tormund squinted again. “I don’t know what it is, but I like it.”

He only smiled briefly. “Just remembering who I am.” He had forgotten. After he came back from dying, everything seemed off. He was someone else entirely. “Safe travels.”

They said their farewells, Dany coming over and sobbing like a baby at her goodbye. He held her close as Tormund waved goodbye and made his way off to the ship. He rubbed at her arm, which was still bundled up in a fur, but she was tense and felt like a chill. He pulled her inside, setting her before the fire to warm her. Ghost settled at her feet, his head on his paws. 

He hadn’t told her about what happened in Lys. With Tormund there it seemed like they never had a moment of quiet. As much as he had been through with Tormund, what he had done in Lys had startled him a bit. He didn’t regret it at all; the man deserved it, but he also wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell him. To confide that part of himself. The only person who would understand was her and he needed her full attention. 

“I’ll miss him,” she said, sitting in a chair like it was her throne, her fingers gripping the armrests. She was taking some heavy breaths, but nothing that outwardly concerned him. She said the Dothraki midwives told her that as the time came to an end, she might feel pains. Just breathe through them, but she would know when it was time. 

He took a deep breath and reached for her hands. “I have something to tell you.”

At her curious look, he knelt before her and confessed what he’d done. How he hadn’t felt anything. The only thing he felt was the pain for the poor women who had been taken. He didn’t want to make things difficult for her if Westeros responded. Grey Worm seemed proud of him almost, which was a miracle to him. 

And when he finished, he waited for her response, but she did nothing. He wasn’t sure what would happen. She just stared at him. He felt a chill go down his spine. She was angry with him. He fucked it up. “Dany?” he murmured.

The smile started slow. Just the corners of her lips. They began to tug upward. They spread over her teeth. Came up over and before he knew it all he could see was her beaming face, her violet eyes sparkling. “You are a dragon, Jon Snow,” she murmured. She cocked her head slightly. “You hurt those who hurt others. There was nothing wrong in what you did.” 

He frowned. “I get angry sometimes,” he admitted. His brow furrowed as he thought about it. The pain he had inflicted on others had always been because they deserved it. Or he thought they deserved it. His eyes widened. Gods. He glanced at her, seeing the pain crossing her face, only it wasn’t from the baby. It was from her past. This was what she had thought, standing there in the throne room, telling him her plan for the world. The plan she wanted to put in place with him. And he’d killed her for it. 

We all think we know what is best.

He leaned into her and brushed his thumb at the base of her neck, under her silky curls. “Never understood why I had that anger,” he murmured. “Now I guess I do.”

A tear fell down her face. He moved both ofhis hands up to cup her cheeks and she gripped his wrists. “Where was this man before?” she murmured. She took his hand and placed it under her left breast, where he knew the scar stretched. “Where was this man the day he did this?”

“I don’t know,” he breathed. He closed his eyes around his own hot tears. “I suppose he went away and now he’s finally come back.” His hand smoothed down over her belly. She leaned forward, now crying harder. Gods don’t, he silently begged, reaching for her and sitting on the arm of the chair, cradling her head to his chest. 

She patted his thigh. “I wish he had come back sooner,” she whispered.

So do I. 

They sat like that for some time, until he helped her up and led her to the bed, helping her lie back against his chest. She rested her head in the crook of his neck. Sometimes he thought they were made to be like this. The gods had made them for each other and he had fought it. Fought against it because of his stubborn pride and honor and ideals. I wish I had never known, he thought, closing his eyes.

But somehow they still ended up in this place. 

Her fingers danced over his. He watched as she began to fiddle with his hand, tracing the burn scar as she often did. “I should make you my master of laws and justice,” she murmured and he could almost hear her smiling. 

“That’s not a title.”

“It is if I make it one, but I have a better title for you.”

He leaned against the pillows as she turned so she could peer straight up at him. The violet in her eyes reminded him of the color of the sky after a storm. He knew how much she liked storms. Stormborn. “And what’s that?” he murmured.

She smiled. Leaned in. Kissed him. 

Whispered.

“King.”

And he smiled. Said nothing. Her eyes continued to sparkle, as though she knew he did not plan on saying anything. She stroked his face and leaned in again, kissing him once more. Long and slow. He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheeks to her temples, anchoring her in place as he poured his feeling into the kiss and she returned it. 

After a long time, she patted his knee, which was drawn up around her, almost pinning her in place. “We need to leave. I have to get to Vaes Dothrak.” 

He didn’t understand her desperate need to get there before the baby was born. “It’s so long,” he murmured. He palmed her belly, feeling the change that had overcome it in the past week. It felt lower and she said sometimes she wondered if she might drop the thing in the grass outside, with only Ghost there to help her. “Are you sure?”

“I must. It is my home as much as this place is.” She tilted her head back again. “You didn’t know me before Jon. You would never have recognized me. I was scared and alone and afraid…I could not fight back, I didn’t know how…all I wanted was a home. A family that loved me. I found that in Vaes Dothrak. I found it with the Dothraki people. My khalasar. They loved me before and after and…they followed me.” She began to cry again. “I became someone there. I became me with them.” She held her stomach again. “I want my baby born there. Where I was born.”

Then we will fly tonight, he thought, nodding. He kissed her temple again, murmuring. “Let’s go.”

A few weeks later, he was lying on the pallet in their tent in Vaes Dothrak. Looking at the stars. He didn’t know what to expect, the midwives coming and going, saying it wasn’t time yet. It wasn’t time yet. She raged at him sometimes. Threw things and cried and laughed and then fell asleep after whatever temper she had fallen in or out of. Rono simply shrugged at his questions and said it was what happened before birth sometimes. 

“They go crazy,” he said.

Tonight it was warm, he thought, frowning a little when he felt her tense beside him. He stopped moving his fingers over the babe and sat up, looking down at the way her face had contorted in pain. She let out a gasp and sat up. He said nothing, waiting for her to make the first move. When she didn’t, just cried out again, he got to his feet. “Dany,” he demanded. “What’s happening?”

She took a deep breath and gasped through whatever pain was tensing her body. He looked down at the blankets and his mouth fell at the sight of the spreading stain over the front of her skirt. She looked up, her eyes wide. “I think my waters broke…the baby…I think…I think the baby is coming.”

And then he wasn’t sure what happened after that, because Dany started yelling in Dothraki and midwives ran in and Rono grabbed him around his waist and hauled him out of the tent, kicking and screaming for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the incident in the beginning of the chapter came from a rewatch; my mother started watching the show (against my protest because of the last season) and I came in during the episode when Jon beheads Janos Slynt for not following orders. I was like "one, he is super hot in this scene" and two, "damn if that isn't a Targaryen killing someone." It was probably the closest the show had ever gotten to showing Targ!Jon, which the books do a bit more (provided GRRM is still going with R+L=J). So anyways, I was like "hm, I need to see this in this fic now." So I wrote it.
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful and kind reviews! I have the next chapter written and then unfortunately only four more after that and this one is done. I will likely write more one-shots in this universe if that is something people would like to see-- likely involving the Targlings through the years and maybe some of the other characters. 
> 
> I also have a modern AU fic set at Christmas (blatant ripoff from Emilia's new movie that I had to start writing once I saw the trailer) that involves all kinds of cutesy Jonerys Christmas moments, a cynical Dany, drunk Christmas store owner Cersei, exasperated BFF Missandei, and of course the handsome stranger with a wolf who keeps popping up in random places.
> 
> Anyways...next time: Dany gives birth; a dragon dream encourages Dany to fight; Jon goes a bit crazy.


	31. Lya (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lya graces the world with her presence; Dany passes a message to Jon; Jon kind of goes crazy.

The pain with Rhaego was nothing compared to this. 

What the seven hells did Jon put inside of me, she wondered, screaming through a particularly violent spasm. The Dothraki midwives muttered about themselves, feeling her stomach and patting her down with wet cloths. She heard Drogon in the distance screaming as though he was also in pain. Maybe he was, given their connection. Somewhere above Eddarion also cried out, no doubt reflecting Jon’s emotions. 

She could hear him outside. “Did they tie him up?” she asked at one point, when she thought she heard a rope being strung. 

“How else to get him to stay?” one of the midwives responded.

“Untie him, let him in.”

“Khaleesi, it is not done. Men stay outside. They put the baby inside of you and you push the baby out,” one of the older women of the dosh khaleen said, shaking her head in refusal. “No husbands in the birthing room.”

“I demand it,” she snapped. She didn’t usually pull her weight with them like that, but she wanted him here. The pain coursing through her was his doing; he should bear witness to it. He also was in pain himself. She could see it in his eyes, with every spasm that wracked her body, he flinched. She groped for his hand and took it. He kicked off his boots and sat behind her, his feet flat on either side of hers before he moved so his legs were wrapped over hers, pinning her back to his chest. He wrapped his arms under hers, taking her hands and holding her as she fought through a breath. 

It hurt. It reminded her of before. Just worse. “Talk to me,” she murmured. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and her hair pulled from her face, sweat beading over her temple. “Just talk to me.”

He gripped her hands as she sobbed out and she felt his legs clench around her, pinning her in place as she arched a bit against the pain, keeping her in place. “When I was little,” he said, his breath tickling her ear, but oddly calming her a bit. “Robb told me the crypts were haunted and he tried to trick Theon. So I covered myself in flour from the kitchens and hid behind the tomb of Torrhen Stark and I jumped out and surprised them.” He laughed. “Robb near shit himself and I think Theon did.”

She laughed; he sounded like a mischievous little boy. “What else did you do?” she murmured.

“Well you know I can’t lie.”

“No, it’s a terrible weakness of yours.”

“We were playing with arrows and practicing and Theon lit one on fire and then shot it. It went through an open window and into a room where Father was.” He laughed and she could only imagine the reaction of Ned Stark when a flaming arrow went through the window. His spoke quickly as she fought another spasm. “Robb wanted to say it was a bird.”

“A bird with a flaming arrow?”

“Sometimes he could not lie either,” he laughed. So he told her about the way they explained it off, somehow convincing Ned Stark that there was a lantern and the arrow went through and what were the chances of that but yes sir, it was certainly true. Until Ned looked him straight in the eye and then it all came tumbling out, taking the blame for the Greyjoy ward and the Stark heir. 

She thought about how he always had to take the blame for things that weren’t his fault, just by nature of his position in the family. “You lied though,” she murmured, feeling a wave of relief crest over her as the pain seemed to fade and a warm feeling began spreading in her toes. “You lied, you didn’t do anything.”

He ran his hands over her belly, which felt as though it were a boulder on her waist. “I was a Snow,” he murmured against her neck. “I had to take the blame.”

Your honor was the downfall of your House and it will be the downfall of you, she thought weakly, her hand limply falling out of his as the pain seemed to trickle away again. “Jon,” she murmured, her head lolling on his shoulder. It felt cold all of a sudden. Like a bucket of ice water dumped onto her. 

In the back of her mind she could hear the dosh khaleen. Hear them shouting at him in Dothraki and Jon shouting back. Rono trying to translate from outside the tent, not wanting to enter the birthing area. They said that the babe was not coming yet and it had been a long time. They thought the babe was stuck and she was getting a fever. She was starting to bleed, but we can stop it, maybe, they said. I’m dying, she thought to herself, her eyes closed. She couldn’t open them anymore. She couldn’t move, but she could hear.

“You save her!” Jon screamed from somewhere in her mind. It sounded like a madman. The pain, anger, and tears. She heard the midwives yelling at him and Rono telling him to shut up and let them do their job, but he cried. He sounded like a little boy, she thought, wanting to comfort her. “Save her, if you have to make a choice, you save her!”

A surge of pain had her gasping for breath, eyes springing open and her fingers gripping the blankets beneath her. “Jon,” she cried. She shook her head on the pillow. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck and forehead. Everything in her hurt and felt numb at the same time. She looked at her fingertips and saw blood on them and on the blankets. I’m dying. “Save the baby,” she murmured. 

It was the only thing she could think about. 

Save the baby. 

Kill me instead.

I deserve this, I died once before and I will die again, and I will die but my child will live. Finally one of my children will live. “Baby,” she breathed as she felt herself sit up slightly and realized that Jon had climbed beneath her again, his hands on her face, trying to get her to look up at him. 

“Open your eyes,” he begged. “Dany please, open your eyes. I love you, I love you and I’m sorry. Gods I’m so sorry for what I did, just stay with me.” He began to mumble in her ear, rocking her from side to side. “_Issa jorrāelagon _” 

My love. My love. My love.

I love you too, she thought with a smile on her lips. Her head snapped back as her eyes fell shut again. He continued to yell and bargain with the gods and with her. “I did this to you,” he cried. “Kill me instead!”

Oh no Jon, no you don’t need to die, she thought, her eyes flickering a bit as the feeling behind her moved suddenly. She hit the pillows and saw between her lashes that Rono had finally entered with three of her other bloodriders. At least two others were waiting and he was kicking and screaming. She could hear the pain in his voice and somewhere in the sky Eddarion let out sounds she had never heard before. 

The made the dragon angry, she thought. The gods angered the dragon and he was going to fight them. He managed to free himself from their clutches, which she marveled at, her fingers loosely falling open as he gripped them. They grabbed him again, the midwives yelling that they had to save her and the baby. She thought she saw Jon’s head somewhere near her knees and someone yelling that he couldn’t deliver the baby.

Gods he’s probably trying to pull the thing from me, she thought with a laugh. They said she was going mad, the birthing pains and the fever beginning to take her. She closed her eyes and the last thing she saw was at least six of her bloodriders holding Jon around his arms, legs, waist, and feet as he fought them off, screaming like a madman that they had to save her because if she died again then he would kill himself too. 

Oh don’t do that, she thought, it would be such a shame.

Relief began to wash over her and it seemed the entire world went bright and blurry. The last thing she heard before everything went dark was the anguished scream from a dragon.

Or maybe a wolf howl.

\--

“Daenerys…Daenerys, my love.”

Her eyes opened slowly. Where was she, she wondered, standing in a beautiful field, with flowers and trees. Her head tilted up to the cloudless sky, the sun beaming. Oh my, she thought, as dragons roamed above, what looked to be hundreds of them. Was this where we go when we die? It did not look like how it did before. The black and darkness and pain. She looked at her body and smoothed her hands over her stomach. The dress she wore was purple and lovely and smooth. Her hair in pretty braids and she smiled to herself. It felt nice, wherever she was.

She lifted her head and stared at the woman before her.

There was a slight resemblance. The facial features were similar, but where hers were rounded and soft, this woman’s were sharp and angular. Her eyes were a deeper violet, near indigo, and her hair an even lighter shade of silver, almost white. A silver and ruby crown nestled in the lovely curls of her hair and she looked regal in black and silver and deep red velvets. The woman was also taller than her and carried herself with dignity and grace.

It did not take her a moment to realize who the woman before her was. 

“Mother,” she sobbed, reaching for the woman she never knew.

Rhaella gripped her close, enveloping her in her arms, and her soft cheek against Dany’s head. “My daughter,” she whispered. “I have missed you.” She swayed with her, while Dany cried into her mother’s arms. The mother she never knew. The mother she wanted to be. She could barely breathe, maybe she did not even need to, and she gripped her mother. 

This must be death.

The dutiful queen pulled away and looked down at her with her lovely indigo gaze. “My beautiful daughter…I am so proud of you and the woman you have become.” She smoothed her fingers over her cheek, still smiling. “I am so sorry I could not be there with you through your life. I love you so much, you were the only thing I could cling to when word of your brother’s death reached me…you were the light of my life.”

Just like my baby, she thought, but said nothing. She sniffed at her tears. “I am so sorry I failed you,” she cried. My mother died for me to life and I ruined it. She gripped her mother’s thin hands. “I did not take back the Seven Kingdoms for us…I died, mad and alone, like my father.”

Rhaella reached for her, brushing her hair from her eyes and smiling sadly. “You failed no one,” she murmured. “And you are not your father, you never could be, even if you tried.” She squeezed her hands tight. “I do not have a long time my child. I am here to tell you that it is a hard thing to be a Targaryen. It is hard for us to bring dragons into the world. We want them so desperately but our bodies tend to reject them. This is simply just another difficult test for you and you will come out in the end. You just need to fight for it.”

I can’t fight anymore. I have fought for so long and I am so tired. “I am like my father,” she cried. “I am evil and mad and the babe could be just like us.”

Her mother’s hand came to her face again. The pain in her eyes was palpable. “You are not your father. You are not cruel and bitter and mean. You do not hurt just to hurt. You hurt because you are hurt. You are emotional and powerful and dutiful.”

“I wish you were the queen. You are the queen we needed,” she whispered. How things could have been different if it had been Rhaella still alive. They could have gone to Braavos as a family. Viserys would not have become the angry, weak, and split person he had become. They could have taken the kingdoms as a family. A single unit. She could have had the mother she always wanted.

Rhaella shook her head. “No, you are the queen we need.”

“I must be dead.” It was the only explanation. How else was she seeing a woman who died decades before? She reached for her mother and was surprised to feel her cool skin on her hand. It was real or was it…she could not comprehend. 

What happened to my baby? What happened to Jon? 

“You are in pain,” her mother told her, tears falling down her beautiful face. Rhaella had to be the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The most loving and kind…she sobbed again, longing for the woman. “You needed your mother and here I am…you will survive as you have done everything in your life.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, pulling her towards her chest and they began to walk through the grass, towards a hearttree. 

Why was there a heart tree, she wondered, but said nothing, as her mother continued to speak. “You have a man who loves you dearly, Daenerys. A man who loves you for the woman you are. The strong and smart and kind woman you are.” Rhaella smiled sadly. “You are the love of his life and he is yours and together you both can rule.”

If he loved me why did he kill me, she wanted to say, but she simply closed her eyes against the tears. She felt like her mother was leaving her again. The light breath on her face was fading. “How do you know?” she sobbed. How could he love a monster like her? It was just a dream. A stupid, pointless dream and one day she would do something he disagreed with and he would kill her. Or someone would convince him it was the right thing to do. 

“Because I know.”

The voice was a bit stronger than Rhaella’s floaty, musical words. There was an accent on it that reminded her of someone. She turned and stared at the woman approaching from the hearttree. The woman with the same dark curls as Jon, barely tamed at the back of her head. The same gray eyes that appeared black at first look. Thin face and slightly smile. She even held herself the same as him. 

Lyanna Stark paused, her hand going to her hip. She looked ready to leap onto a horse or swing a sword. She smiled and all Dany could see was Jon’s face. The woman approached her, with the same sad look that often crossed Jon. “You love my son, when I could not.” She reached and Dany took her hand, finding the grip strong as she gripped it, standing between her mother and the mother of her king. “If were alive I would protected him with everything I had within me. I would have taken a sword and killed anyone who tried to harm him. That was my last wish. To protect him for the rest of his life…even if it meant denying his heritage.”

In the end he still became a king. Somehow. Whether he realized it or not. “I think he misses you,” she whispered, staring at the woman who started a war. She wrinkled her brow. “Did you love my brother?” 

The pain in Lyanna’s face almost broke her. “More than life,” she whispered. She gripped her hands. “It is why you need to fight. It is why you have to wake up and fight for your love and your child. My son has made plenty of mistakes…he is his father in that regard,” she said with a smile. She blinked through tears. “He loves so deeply. It will kill him in the end, just like his father.”

Rhaella reached for her next. “In the end you will be the one, Daenerys.”

The one to what? “To tell him who he really is,” Lyanna said to her. She looked at the other woman and then to her mother, confused. Lyanna’s gray eyes widened. “He is the wolf.”

“And also a dragon,” Rhaella said.

“I know,” she cried. She shook her head. “He doesn’t want to be though.”

“No,” Lyanna whispered and pressed her hand against her stomach. Dany looked down, frowning and then up again at the two mothers. “Your child will be both. The light for the world.”

The pain that had knocked her down, had convinced her it wasn’t worth fighting, and had convinced her was her own fault seemed to explode inside of her. Only she did not want to die anymore. She did not want to just close her eyes and let it wash her away. She began to cry. “I don’t want to die!”

“You won’t,” they both said. 

Rhaella touched her hair, whispering. “Someone else wants to see you.”

Who could it be now and what is this dream, she wondered, turning and looking over, crying in pain as her mother faded away. As Lyanna brushed a kiss to her forehead. “Tell my son I love him, he is the man his father was,” she breathed, and she too was gone.

I’m all alone.

She turned in a few circles and then on another turn, there she was, standing in front of her, as though she were always there, her hands in front of her dress and a serene smile on her lips. This is death, she thought, sobbing as she reached for her best friend. 

Missandei gripped her tight. “I wish you were here,” she cried, desperately aching for the other woman. She pulled away and saw unshed tears in Missandei’s eyes. “This would be your child as much as mine. I cannot do this without you.”

There were butterflies around them and it seemed like now they were in a glade of flowers and an ocean lapping the shore nearby. Missandei took her hands, smiling wide. “You burned them all for me,” she whispered. “For everyone.”

“For Joran and my parents and the entire history against my family,” she cried, nodding.

“I would not have wanted you to burn the children.”

“I don’t know what came over me.” Madness. Grief. 

The other woman reached for her and squeezed her hands again. “Grief has a way of changing your entire mind.” They began to walk, towards the ocean. “I remember when I became a slave and I lost my entire family. I longed for them. I remember thinking how wrong it would be to fight back; we do not fight. Only I wanted to do something to the ones who took them from me.”

“_Dracarys_…it was your final word.” 

“And you did. You burned them all.” Missandei paused as they reached the ocean and she felt her feet sink into the soft white sand. The woman gripped her hands tight, whispering and smiling. “Be with your children, Your Grace.”

She shook her head. It was impossible. “I’m dying…that’s why I’m here. If I am not already dead.”

“You just have to fight,” Missandei said, still gripping her hands. It felt like something else was holding her though now. Not the soft, small hands of the other woman, but stronger ones. Rougher ones. She leaned in and breathed into her ear. “_Dracarys_.”

And then everything came rushing back to her. Pain, screaming, women shouting for her to breathe and to fight. The tortured cries of a man who loved her, thinking she was gone again. 

With a gasp, her eyes sprang open.

\--

“_Khaleesi!_

She gasped, trying to breathe and fight the pain spreading in her lower belly. Her fingers gripped the blankets beneath her, realizing they were softer and cleaner. She looked at her stomach, which was still swollen, but seemed lower than it had been. A horrified cry escaped her. “My baby!” She reached for the midwives, crying. “What happened? Where is my baby?”

And then one of the midwives turned around and Dany saw the white linen wrapped bundle in her arms. The midwife smiled and stepped towards her. As she leaned down, Dany saw the pink face staring up and the tiny arm raised and waving. “_Anna's a nayat, khaleesi._”

A girl, she thought, sobbing as she took the baby, who was wiggling and crying, a wailing red thing, with a slightly purple little face. She lowered her head over the infant, tears pouring down her face, heavy sobs wracking her body as she cradled her daughter against her chest. She began to rock, her hand cupping the baby’s head, soft dark hair against her fingers, and the tiny hands beating at her face. 

This was all I ever wanted in the entire world. 

She looked up. “Where is Jon?” she demanded.

The midwives exchanged a look. “We had to throw him out, _khaleesi_. He was trying to pull the babe from inside you himself and took a knife out to kill us all if we did not save you.” 

Another nodded. “He broke Rono’s arm and Agharo has a bruised eye.”

She laughed, but it sounded more like a cry. She nodded to them. “Bring him in, please. I need him.”

They left and a moment later the tent flicked open. She lifted her face to his, staring at the myriad of emotions that crossed it. Love, pain, excitement, fascination, regret…fear. He took another step in, still wary somewhat, but she could see him looking up and over at the bundle.

She reached for him, crying. “We have a daughter.”

And then he laughed. He came around to stand beside her and then he lowered himself to sit behind her, his arm wrapping around to hold their daughter with her. She would never let her go, she vowed. The perfect creation in her arms would never feel pain, she vowed. She would never go through what either one of them had experienced. She would be loved, she would have parents who cherished and worshipped her, and who would never let anything happen to her. 

Lyanndei, she thought. She wanted to name her Lyanndei.

They rocked together with their baby and she said her name. Jon agreed and later that evening, as they continued to lay together, with his strong arms holding her against his chest, protecting her from anything that dared to harm, and their daughter bundled close, she heard his whispers in her ear. 

“If you want me to be your King…I’ll do it.”

My King, she smiled, her eyes still closed. She could hardly think of that right now. She stared at Lyanndei’s blinking eyes, the gray of her father staring up for a moment before the baby closed her eyes again. She felt him behind her, drifting off to sleep again. 

As much as she knew she needed to rest, she could only stay awake and stare at her daughter, the little baby who had no idea just what she represented. The unification of two old bloodlines, like her father…yes. The first Targaryen child born in over two decades…yes. Except it wasn’t that. It had nothing to do with bloodlines and houses and thrones and kings and queens. 

Her daughter was the actual physical manifestation of a love that had started between enemies, ended with a knife to the heart, and somehow had found a way to return. It defied even death, she thought, closing her eyes as she brushed her lips to her daughter’s tiny brow. The child cried a bit and the moment her voice became known, Jon immediately tightened his grip on her and his eyes opened. “She alright?” he murmured.

“She’s perfect.”

“I love you Dany.”

“Jon.” She thought of the beautiful woman, with Jon’s eyes and smile. She turned her head slightly to peer up at him. “Your mother is proud of you. You’re just like your father.” 

He stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out why she would say something like that. Confusion etched into his brow and his eyes darkened. He smiled slightly and nodded. “You saw her then?” It was her turn to frown at him. How did he know? At her silent question, he whispered a reply. “I heard you…I thought it might have been one of those dreams.”

She nodded. She smiled and touched his nose. “You look like her, you know,” she murmured. Her finger traced the shape of his eyes. “You have her eyes and her smile but…” She thought of how he was so serious and sullen. She quirked her lip. “You will be an amazing father.”

Fear now crossed his face. “How do you know that?”

“Because you have Rhaegar in you,” she whispered and kissed him lightly. It was her turn to worry. She gripped his hand tight. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why not?”

It was his turn now and he pressed his hand against her chest, over the scar and his breath tickled on the back of her neck. “Because you have a good heart.”

Like my mother, she hoped, and closed her eyes tight. She felt his light kiss again and his arms wrap tighter around her, both of them cradling Lya. She did not let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! I am almost done with the story but I already am working on a one-shot in the same universe from a Tormund POV. Because Tormund + Targlings= Chaos.
> 
> Next time: Lya has terrible timing; Jon and Dany discuss how to protect their daughter.


	32. Protect the Pack (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a conversation with his daughter; Dany and Jon discuss their fears over parenting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just rotting teeth fluff, you're warned.
> 
> This stems from my still burning need to see Jon Snow holding a kid he never thought he would have. Although that sight might very well have killed me. Anyways, enjoy!

There was a strange screaming sound in the back of his head.

It kind of sounded like a dragon hatchling, eager for food

Or a wolf pup mewling for its mother.

Or a combination of both, Jon thought, his eyes flickering open as he heard the sounds begin to pull him from sleep. He never needed it much, but by gods when you were forced to do without it seemed like he needed it more than he needed air to breathe. He stumbled out of the chair where he’d been sprawled before the fire, leaning over the wooden cradle and removing his daughter.

My daughter, he thought with a stupid smile on his lips, and his eyes closing again as he cradled her head in his hand and covered her back with his other. “Shh,” he murmured to her, quelling the beginnings of the wails that would soon ricochet off the house’s walls and wake her mother. He stole a glance over his shoulder and smiled at Dany’s form sprawled over the bed, blankets tangled in her legs and her silver curls sprawled over her face. Her mouth was ajar and if he was not mistaken there were little sounds coming from her throat that mimicked snores.

He would never tell her that of course.

Why don’t we go have some time, he thought, his lips resting on the cap of dark hair on his daughter’s head, leaving the bedroom and going down the stairs to the area of the home he considered the kitchen, with a large stone tub that they had filled with warm water the other day to give Lyanndei her first bath. It had ended up with them getting more water all over them than the babe.

A lullaby he remembered from when Arya was a baby, that he sometimes heard his father singing to her in the halls, when he would try to steal a glance at the new baby who allegedly looked just like him, came to his mind. He smiled into Lya’s little head, his eyes closing as he slowly swayed around in the house with her in his arms, the babe quiet and cuddling against him, her tiny hands pressed to his shoulder. She was quite strong for a little one, he thought, remembering the first time she had grabbed his finger.

My daughter.

It was all he could do to not go outside every single morning and scream it to the gods. To think he was going to miss out on this, that he’d wanted to miss out on this, he thought, eyes closing again. There was really nothing like seeing your child look at you, with nothing but pure trust in you. He could not let her down. She relied on him for everything. 

He hummed the song, about wolves running in the forest, and the snow falling on the ground, and the little wolf pup who found the sun. He wasn’t sure of the lyrics, but he remembered the melody and all he could do was just smile, the comfortable weight of the babe on his arm almost lulling him into a hypnotic like sleep walk.

After a long moment, he gazed out the window in the direction of the godswood. He kissed her temple and reached for his cloak, draping it over the shoulders of his tunic and taking a fur from the chaise in the corner, bundling up the babe. He left the house and crossed over the light snow that dusted the ground. To his surprise it had snowed a few days after they arrived.

It had been a few months since Lya’s birth and Dany wanted to ensure she was healthy enough to travel on the back of Drogon. They waited and waited and finally she deduced it was time. They arrived on the island and a messenger sent to Hardhome to bring Tormund to the island. They arrived and later that night it had begun to snow. 

Winter had come for Lya, he thought with a happy smile, bundling her up and allowing the snow to touch her precious skin for a moment before whisking her away to stay warm by the fire, with the glowing dragon eggs and her dragon mother. He carried her now to the godswood, his fingers resting over her tiny fists. It was a full moon that evening. Like when we married under the hearttree, he thought, coming to stop beneath the smiling face.

He knelt, the cloak billowing out around him and closed his eyes, cradling Lya tight. Thank you, he prayed. Thank you for bringing her back to me. For bringing my daughter to me. He opened his eyes and peered up at the smiling red face. “Thank you for letting me have this,” he murmured. He shook his head slightly and smiled, peering at Lya, whose eyes had opened, the gray staring up at him as her mouth opened and closed. “I just wish it hadn’t been so painful, but if this is my reward…thank you.”

Although he could not thank them enough. 

“Protect her,” he murmured. He closed his eyes. Give me the strength to protect her for the rest of her life from anyone who would do her harm. I don’t like killing, but I will kill anyone who even thinks of hurting her. He smiled and gazed back at her, settling against the root of the tree, the cloak wrapped around them and keeping them warm. Ghost arrived a moment later, settling beside him, also providing heat.

He didn’t want to a child to experience his life as a bastard, but he hadn’t focused on the sheer joy of knowing that this child came from him, he thought, his finger touching Lya’s little nose. It was her mother’s. He smiled when she screwed up her nose at his touch. Just like Dany. “You are going to be the most beautiful girl in the world,” he murmured. He smiled when she blinked a few times and reached her fists to him. “And I’m going to teach you how to string a bow and shoot an arrow.” And we’ll hunt and ride and you’ll learn to swing a sword. He looked up as a shadow crossed the moon, pointing up even though he knew she couldn’t see. “And fly on dragons.”

Eddarion screeched in the evening, chasing after Drogon. Silverwing was not far behind. 

Ghost rested his head on his knee, nosing the bundle. “And Ghost will never let you out of his sight,” he said, knowing his wolf would rip the heart of anyone who threatened his pack. 

My daughter, he kept thinking, still smiling at her. She began to screw up her eyes and nose a few more times and a couple of little whines escaped from her bow lips. He kissed her forehead. “Alright, I suppose Mai has slept long enough.” He just wanted her to have a bit of a break. She was doing so much. It seemed like Tormund was right, to his chagrin, but he may have had an enjoyable time creating the babe, but Dany seemed to have to do a lot more to bring the child to the world and keep her alive.

He got to his feet and carried her back to the house, tossing the cloak onto the chaise and bringing her upstairs, finding Dany already awake and seated in the large window he had installed, which opened out like doors, fashioning it off something he had seen in Pentos. There was a small balcony for when it was warmer. “I think she’s hungry,” he announced.

“I was wondering where you had gone.” She reached and he carefully placed Lya into her arms. She shivered, smiling at him. “I can feel the cold on you.” She tugged at the wide neck of her shift, lowering it over her shoulder to expose a breast and offer it to Lya, who took immediately and eagerly began to eat. She turend to look at him again and patted his cheek. “You went to the godswood.”

He nodded. He leaned against her shoulder, crouched down at the side of the chair. “It was nice out tonight.”

“You and I have different definitions of what nice out means,” she teased. She stood carefully and walked over to the bed. He helped her and moved to sit behind her, propping her against his chest. She sighed, closing her eyes and tucking her head under his chin. “I could stay here forever.”

He took her hand, kissing her knuckles. “Me too.”

“Vaes Dothraki is our home…our first home. Valyria is the place where our ancestors came from and where we rule, but this place…” she trailed off and looked around at the rafters and gazed into the hearth where the eggs shined. “This is our real home.”

It was the only home both of htem had truly ever known. Always the outsiders looking in on everyone else. She, the begger orphan in the streets of Essos, and him, the shunned bastard of a nobleman. Different experiences and places, but…same general concept, he thought. They just wanted a place to call their own. He kissed her temple. “I love you.”

“And I you,” she replied. She sighed and he knew something else was on her mind. He waited for her to voice it, knowing it would be soon. After Lya had fed and been placed back in her crib, she picked up a shawl and wrapped it around her, leaving the room and going down to the main area. 

He followed, wondering what she was thinking. He leaned against one of the posts, watching her fiddle with folding some of the nappies and then go over to the hearth and place on a pot of water, leaning and lifting some of the coals, tossing them around in her hand like a child might with rocks at a pond. “It scares me when you do that,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

She looked up, grinning. “Holding coals?”

He shuddered. “One day it may not work.”

“No, fire cannot burn a dragon.” She walked over to him and took his burned palm, lighting setting one of the flame-red coals in his hand. He held it for a moment, feeling a comfortable pressure and then after a few more moments it began to sting. She took the coal, tossing it up into the air and catching it again. She smiled. “You are becoming a dragon I think. Maybe one day you won’t feel it either.”

Maybe, or maybe I will just be able to stand it for a moment. He didn’t find fire as appealing as she did sometimes. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

She sighed, getting to her feet and leaving the pot of water to boil, going to sit beside him on the chaise. She fiddled with the laces at the neck of his tunic. “I was thinking of Dragonstone.” 

Dragonstone? “Why is that?” He kissed her palm that had been holding the coal, finding it pleasantly warm. 

“Just thinking of homes. It was where I was born, but…I did not feel connection to it like I have to Valyria or here or Vaes Dothrak.” She wrinkled her forehead. “It seems the only good thing that happened there to me was meeting you.” 

Or you could argue it was one of the worst things, he thought darkly. He looped his arms around her waist, tugging her against him to reassure himself it was alright now. “And why are you thinking of Dragonstone then?”

“It was my family’s home long before it was mine. It is almost as old as all the other ancestral homes in Westeros, maybe older even,” she murmured. She looked sideways. “House Targaryen founded Dragonstone ages before the Doom. It was a trading outpost with Westeros and as far from Valyria as they could go before the Doom occurred, thanks to Daenys the Dreamer.” She frowned, her voice soft. “Who knows what they have done to it now.” She sighed again. “Maybe they could give it to me. I could use it for trade again. I mean…it’s silly. It just belonged to my family before any of theirs existed. Not that they cared.”

He wanted to tell her that they would never entertain granting her anything, but instead, he felt fire surge within him. “Didn’t you once say no one gives a Targaryen anything?” he whispered. He leaned in and kissed her softly. “They conquer it. Burn and take.”

She nipped at his bottom lip. “Jon Snow are you talking about me stealing my family’s castle?”

“Our family’s castle,” he murmured. It was unlikely but yes, if he could one day get Dragonstone back to the Targaryens, back to his children, he would do it. As much as he wanted to stay out of the affairs of the west she was right. It was hers by right. He gazed into the fire. “Lyanndei may one day want it.”

The fire continued to course through him and he groaned softly into her mouth as she began to tug at the bottom of his tunic. He stilled her hand, eyes fluttering open to peer into hers. They were dark and full. “You sure,” he whispered. It had been a few months, but he was letting her be the one to determine when she was ready. 

She nodded and kissed him again, her fingers stroking up his sides. “Yes,” she mumbled, pulling herself into his lap. “You know,” she said, sighing as he began to kiss down the lovely column of her throat. Her fingers tangled into his hair. “When we first were in the council room…I had this image of you…” She brought her head back up and leaned down, taking his mouth again. 

What kind of image, he wondered, breaking the kiss and voicing his question. She grinned. “Taking me on the Painted Table.”

His eyes widened and he pulled back to smile at her. “Really?”

“Tell me you didn’t think the same.”

He knew that when his lips twitched it was the giveaway. “One day,” he vowed. He sighed, kissing down her neck again and biting at her collarbone. “But until then…” He twisted in one move, pressing her back onto the chaise and continuing to make his way down her body, hands trailing after. 

Clothes began to come off, first the shawl and then his tunic. He tugged off his boots and she began to pull at his leathers when a sound broke through the soft pants, moans, and groans of them on the chaise. 

They both broke away, staring at each other for a moment as the sound grew louder. “Your daughter,” they both said at the same time. 

She laughed, dropping her head to his shoulder. “Oh come on! I just fed her!” She pulled at his neck, kissing him hard and grinning. “This is all you, she is needy for attention.”

On cue, Lya let out another wail. “Sounds like she might be Eddarion’s daughter,” he teased. She grinned, knowing full well the clingy dragon was hovering over the house, torn between his bond to his rider and his need to also protect his rider’s offspring. The dragon acted like he was constantly being tortured.

He laughed again, kissing her quickly before rolling off the chaise and scooping up his tunic, tossing it back on and running up the stairs, finding Lya in her crib, eyes open and hands waving, crying for someone to pay her mind. “You have the worst timing, little wolf,” he chided. He picked her up and patted her back, shushing her almost immediately. Guess you just wanted someone, he thought, bringing her back down the stairs and to the chaise, where Dany was already huddling beneath blankets. 

He sank down beside her and she crawled into his arms, peering down at the baby. “I can’t believe how much she looks like you.” 

“Hmm, she’s got you too.” He may have said that but he had to admit that she did look like him. Save for some silver coming in little streaks at the top of her dark head. He wondered what life would have been like if he had taken after Rhaegar instead of Lyanna. He gazed at her, wondering how Ned felt when he had taken charge of him, moments after birth, and taken him North with his mother’s bones. Did Lyanna know that Rhaegar had died? 

He frowned a little, remembering a comment Ned told him. “Your thoughts are very loud.” He blinked, glancing at Dany, who had been watching him. 

A brief smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, tell me.”

“Just remembering something…my father told me the last time I saw him, before I went North to the Wall and he went South…told me that next time he saw me he would tell me about my mother.” He wrinkled his brow. “Which would mean telling me about my real father.” 

“And you would have already have taken your vows, you would not be allowed to break them to become King.” She sighed. “Not that most people would have cared…as we later discovered.”

No, he thought, closing his eyes at the regrets. “If anyone found out it wouldn’t have mattered, Robert would have tried to kill me.”

“He sent assassins to me at every opportunity,” she whispered.

Gods, what must that have been like, he thought. She had said so when he first met her. What kind of a man tries to kill a little girl in her crib? He gazed at Lya, sleeping soundly now that she was in his arms. A cold chill went down his spine, forcing him to sit up straight, and eyes widening in realization. “Dany.”

“What?”

“Who sends assassins to kill a little girl in their crib?” he murmured, looking sideways. His jaw set. He had not allowed himself to think much of his other siblings…the ones he never knew. Rhaenys and the other Aegon, dead at the hands of the Lannister forces. Tywin ordered it. Robert approved it. Ned was disgusted by it. In the end he did not stand up to his king then. He wondered if he stood up to him later when he learned that Dany was a target, even across the sea. He hoped so.

She realized what he was referring to and her face went paler than it already was. “We have to keep her secret,” she murmured, looking down at Lya. Her hand went to cup her daughter’s face. “No one can ever know about her.”

“I just wish we could live normally.”

“As you did?”

“I was a bastard of a highborn lord and raised like a legitimate child.” He smirked. “I was not normal.”

It was her turn to smirk. “I was an exiled princess raised by her psychotic brother and married off to a horse lord in exchange for his 40,000 men and horses.”

They continued to stare at her before he flashed a quick smile. “I suppose if this was a competition, you would win.”

Her nose wrinkled and then a serious expression crossed again. “Jon…I’m serious. She cannot go to the Free Cities. We can only bring her to Vaes Dothrak and to Valyria.” She paused. “And only to Valyria on certain occasions. When we know the city is mostly empty of nobles…no one can know that she lives.” 

Almost no one but the Dothraki and Unsullied knew when she was carrying Lya; she had done a good job of hiding it and keeping away from large crowds and magisters and leaders otherwise. He nodded. “If Tyrion ever finds out about them…”

“Or your brother,” she countered. Her eyebrow arched. “And your sister.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Sansa would not harm their daughter, but he closed his mouth. He never knew what had happened to her exactly, but the bratty girl who teased him for being a bastard and only wanted to learn to embroider and have babies with a prince had died in King’s Landing with Ned Stark. She had gone through several levels of hell and come out the other side as a cold, embittered woman who only understood power. Her single-minded focus for a free North resonated with him; he wanted the North to be free too. Until he met Daenerys Targaryen, who would essentially allow it to be free in all but name. 

And now he did not know the woman who called herself the Queen in the North, who broke vows before hearttrees and ignored when her kingdom was under attack. She might do something to his daughter. He could only think of his daughter. He could not have her end up the way his half-brother and half-sister ended. Lying before the feet of a Usurper.

His grip tightened so much that he could feel Dany lightly pulling at his arm and the soft whine from Lya. He swallowed hard and could feel the fire inside of him. The same anger that took him over when he wanted to beat Ramsey Bolton to death. When he cut the tongue off that slaver in Lys. Seven hells, when he killed Janos Slynt and cut the rope holding his murderers to the post. Even when he traveled to Braavos and bought the Faceless Men’s contract out, essentially and notified Tyrion Lannister to stay the fuck away.

It was overwhelming. 

He could breathe fire right now if he opened his mouth.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Dany’s light fingers curling through his hair, tugging it from the knot he had it in at the base of his neck. Her lips brushing over his cheek and her other hand stroking his. Focus, he thought, feeling the fire go away, locked back in somewhere deep. His eyes fluttered open and he peered at Lya, sleeping innocently. 

Did Ned feel that same type of anger and need to protect him?

Or was he just following a promise he made? 

Well I promise, he thought, gazing at Lya’s open eyes. I promise I will never let any harm come to you and I will burn the ever loving life out of anyone who dares to threaten you. If I don’t run them through with Longclaw first. He kissed her head, sealing the promise. 

Dany nuzzled against his shoulder. “You are an amazing father,” she murmured. “And I love you so much for it.”

He felt pink color his cheeks. “I don’t know anything about babies,” he mumbled, brought from his rage and to the present. He glanced sideways. “I’ll kill anyone who touches her.”

She grinned. “Not if I get there first.” 

“I don’t know what I’m doing Dany, honestly. Even with my brothers and sisters…wasn’t like I was allowed to hold them or take care of them or anything. They were just there.” He had seen Little Sam when he was born but hadn’t done much either with him. He frowned. “Although this whole protective thing seems easy.”

They both laughed. She kissed him lightly. “I don’t know anything about babies either Jon Snow. I just always wanted one…always wanted to know what it felt like to have life inside of me and to know that I was part of creating it. Someone who was a part of me and would never leave me.” She sighed. “And now I have it.”

Well we are just a bit of a mess, he thought with another smile. They both continued to peer at Lya. She coughed a little and he almost jumped. “Half expected her to breathe fire like your other babies,” he teased.

She laughed. “Maybe one day she will breathe fire.”

There was a dragon egg with her name on it and he was sure one day it would hatch and yes, she would technically be able to breathe fire. He rested his head on Dany’s shoulder as she leaned against the back of the chaise, her arm going over his shoulder. “Never expected to ever feel like this.”

“Feel like what?”

“Soft as snow but willing to rip the heads off of anyone who threatens her.” He paused. “And burn them alive for good measure.”

“Now you know how I felt when I lost my sons.”

His eyes closed. He never could have apologized enough for that. She sighed. “I was a fool for believing Tyrion’s plan and taking all of them with me. I guess I just thought they were invincible. They were never under threat before and then…it just went so fast.” A tear dripped from her and onto his hand. He leaned his arm back and lightly cupped her face, tilting his head to peer at her, seeing her in a faraway place. “And I rushed Rhaegal. He was weak already. I just wanted to get my throne. I didn’t want to wait, I had waited long enough and I was so angry at your sister and at losing Jorah and…and I wanted that damn thing so much…and I guess I just…” She closed her eyes, more tears falling. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I should have been there. I was just in my own head too much then. I didn’t trust myself. Didn’t know what I wanted and I am sorry.” He just wished they had had more time. More time for him to think and more time for her to grieve. He kissed her knuckles. “I’m here now and I know it doesn’t make it better but I love you.”

“I know,” she murmured. She laughed, a few more tears falling and she wiped at her cheeks to rid them. “I mean we have a child now together, so I hope you are okay with it all.”

He grinned. He was a fucking fool. He looked back down at Lya, still awake and peering at them with her wide gray eyes. “Do you trust me,” he murmured. The stiffening behind him was his answer and he nodded. They may have a child, may have been married, but he knew she was still wrestling with his actions in the room that day. He simply squeezed her hand, kissed her knuckles, and closed his eyes, snuggling back into her as Lya snuggled closer to him. 

After a long time, he opened his eyes and looked back down at Lya, her pink bow lips parted as she slept. He looked back over at Dany beneath him and smiled, noting she had the same expression on her face.

“I promise,” he murmured, kissing his daughter’s head, his eyes closing as he vowed to her. A vow he would never break. “I promise you will never hurt. I’ll kill anyone who does.”

And he sat down later and wrote out another letter to Tyrion Lannister, once again warning what would happen if they got involved in Essosi issues. With a casual mention of the loan the Volantene merchant guild had just paid out to them, he reminded the man who had pulled the strings to have him kill Dany and his unborn child just what happened when you made a dragon angry. _Cities burn and their leaders with them. _ He folded up the parchment and stamped it with the dragon wax seal, placing it in the crate to go out to Braavos with Drogon later that week. 

“Jon?” He lifted his head at Dany’s mumble. She sighed, cuddling into the furs on the chaise, still holding Lya. “Come back here.”

As my queen commands, he thought with a smile, pushing aside the parchment and going to burrow beneath the furs with his family. Somewhere near his feet Ghost hopped up and he knew if the dragons could as well they would too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews! 
> 
> I'm working on the Tormund POV one-shot I have that is set in this universe. I'm hoping to post it sometime this weekend :D
> 
> Next time: Time jump; Dany gets to see the dragon in Jon while they dispense justice; Dany thinks about the relationship they have with Westeros.


	33. Trials (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon deal with trials of ruling a kingdom; Dany realizes Jon needs to move on from a part of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went away for the weekend and came back and found the Jonerys fandom losing its ever loving mind. Yikes. Hopefully some fluff in this chapter can distract some of us :D

_Thirteen Years After Dany’s Death_

Once upon a time ago she had heard him say he didn’t like what he was good at. He had confessed to her numerous times how tired of killing he was. How he just wanted to put up the sword and live in peace. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he would just stay on the island with their daughter, not even venturing for months to Valyria. 

And then there were times where she called on her ‘shadow.’ Her ‘Dragon’ as Rono and Grey Worm referred to him. This was one of those times and she had regretted it when she’d asked him, but he’d come because he knew he had to. It was one of the worst uprisings and periods of discontent she had seen in her kingdom since she had united the cities. Since the masters in Yunkai had crucified children for all the masters she had killed. She had fought very hard to deal with everything in as much diplomacy and peace as possible, knowing what might happen if she got on the back of Drogon in anger and frustration. 

It was partially why Jon was there with her, to temper her anger, but the dragon blood within him had been winning of late against the wolf blood and she watched as he executed another Ghiscari noble, who had attempted to lead armies from New Ghis and Ghiscar to Dragon’s Bay, to take back what they thought she had stolen. 

She sat on Drogon, looking down at the defiant armies of men who had joined against her. She spoke to them in High Valyrian, knowing they could understand every word she said. Jon stood beside her, with Eddarion screaming above, having just burned the entire manse where one of the magisters had been hiding, using it as his place of operations. Eddarion, unlike Drogon, had a more accurate blast of fire and she preferred to use him for very specific targets. As did Arrax, to her surprise, one of her battle-tested dragons that had also fought against a series of necromancers in the Shadow a couple years before.

“You have defied your queen’s rule,” she shouted. She glared at the mass of men and some women. “You have bought into the lies told to you by the Ghiscari nobles. To bring back what you think you have lost. I give everyone the option of a pardon, provided they never take up arms against me again. If you bend the knee, you will live. If you do not, you will die.” She glanced at Jon, who held Longclaw, blood soaking into the steel. 

There was a tingle in her body at the sight of him in his black hooded cloak, armor, and the mask he kept over his mouth. Just on the off chance someone might recognize him, although at this point she didn’t care if anyone knew he was with her. It had been near ten years of them. If the Westerosi didn’t realize Jon was no longer at the Wall and was with her in Essos, they deserved to be surprised. They were also so stupid she just figured they were still living in denial about a lot of things.

She gazed at the people, watching as some fell to their knees and bowed their heads. Obviously they were accepting her mercy. She had long thought it was a weakness. It had been a strength for so long, had served her well, and in Westeros, Cersei turned it against her and she turned into a monster and the person she hated most in the world. It got her killed. She tried to be merciful now, before violent, but there were limits. 

Jon helped her understand and come to terms with those limits.

She felt her hair falling from its braids, feeling it stick to the back of her neck from the soot and grime of flying around Ghis, burning what she had to. She looked at one of the leaders of the uprising, who was standing up with his chin lifted, refusing to bend. I feel like I have been here before, she thought, atop a hillside looking down, with fires raging behind her from the battle and her Dothraki sweeping through on their horses, happily taking what they could from the masters’ camps. 

She studied the noble for a moment. “You do not surrender?” she asked.

“Never, not to the false queen. We were free before. We will be free again.”

“You live in a time of peace.”

“Those are our lands!” he roared.

She took a deep breath, holding it for a moment. “Very well,” she murmured. 

One of the others who refused to bend, to surrender, took a step forward. Jon immediately stepped towards him and Drogon rumbled a threat. She studied this person and glanced at the other leader. “Ghiscar was free, I was working with your people and had no interest in taking it,” she said, still confused at how they had decided to turn against her. She supposed the history of Dragon’s Bay and the hatred many in Ghiscar still felt to the Valyrian Empire was more important. She glanced at Jon again. “You will die today.”

“We demand trial by combat,” one of them said.

Trial by combat was such a Westerosi thing, ironic enough, she thought. She smiled. “You know my father, the Mad King of the Seven Kingdoms, he used fire as his weapon in trial by combat. It was unfair and cruel and calculating and he murdered an innocent man…” Her eyes met Jon’s, who knew she was referring to his grandfather. “And I will not do that. You have heard how I bested the First Sword of Braavos in my taking of the city. I do not show mercy in combat and nor am I shrinking flower.”

The leader laughed and pointed with his cuffed hands. “No! I challenge your Dragon. Your Shadow!”

Oh you stupid man, she thought, you should have just accepted death by dragonfire. She flashed a tight smile. “Very well.”

“We both will fight,” the other said, coming to stand by his friend. Maybe they were something else. Brothers, cousins, relations, or maybe they thought if they fought two to one they had a chance at winning. 

She smiled again. “Shall we have it in the fighting pit of Meereen or will here suffice?” Before they could answer, she instructed Grey Worm and some of the others to gather the ones who refused to yield and then take the ones who did and provide them with treatment and food. They assembled in an area that had been blocked off and she kept on Drogon, while Eddarion landed beside her and Arrax, Silverwing, and Wildfyre circled above, reminding everyone just what type of queen they were dealing with.

Grey Worm walked over to Drogon, peering up at her. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Your Grace?” he asked.

“Yes.”

It would be fine. She had the weapons returned to the men, allowed them to inspect and clean them, get their shield and armor ready. They may have been fighters, better than a master she supposed, but they were playing with the wrong queen. She watched Jon remove his cloak, but still keep the mask over his face. All black, with the red at his neck and red three-headed dragon on his breastplate, he looked like a phantom. He looked like a ghost, she thought with a smile. 

Be safe, she thought, watching as her husband and father of her daughter stepped forward against the two. She hated asking him to do this. He had said nothing. They tried not to interact much in these types of moments, to keep his identity as cloaked in mystery as possible. 

After a moment, he removed the mask from his face. Her eyes widened slightly. He tossed it aside and then looked at the pommel, the wolf head of Longclaw covered. He took off the cover and she knew if anyone decided to let the people of Westeros know, they would know. 

It might be time.

It had been over a decade. 

They should probably know exactly who was in charge in Essos. So far Tyrion had left her alone, but if he knew Jon was also in charge, things might not be as easy. She smirked. So long as Lya was kept safe and remained unknown, she almost welcomed the attempts of the Lannister to try to unseat her again.

Jon swung Longclaw around and then removed the medium-sized arakh he kept with him. His dark curls were tugged into braids and his armor was loose like the Unsullied. She smiled proudly; he was the love of her life, the man who had helped her create her daughter, and he was one of hers. He had learned as much as he could of her people and he was proud of it. She was proud of him.

The scar under her breast burned. She hesitated; it did that sometimes. Like it was reminding her when she forgot, just what he was capable of doing. She chewed her lower lip, pushing it from her mind. She cleared her throat, announced the trial by combat, and waved her hand down, signaling the commencement.

It would not last long, she thought, knowing Jon would try to put them out of their misery as fast as he could. He was an amazing fighter. He’d taught her and she had defeated the First Sword of Braavos. In effect, he did as well. He moved like a dancer, he feinted and parried. He swung the arakh like he’d been holding it since he was a child, as the Dothraki did, and Longclaw was just an extension of his sword.

When he lost the arakh at one point, she wondered if he’d done it on purpose. Both of the rebel leaders were good, but they weren’t as good as Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen, she thought, briefly thinking of the story Ser Barristan told her about Rhaegar, picking up training because he believed he needed to fight. It was in his blood, the blood of the wolf and blood of the dragon.

And when the two were wounded severely, she provided them an out. Yield entirely or die. They still remained defiant, so she called off Jon and used Drogon to finish them. She asked the others again, would they still die like their leaders or would they yield to her?

Some still chose to die. 

Except this time when she had them placed by the fire of their former leaders, she climbed off of Drogon and went to a chest that Rono brought over from his horse. She had thought about it before they left Valyria last and felt that it was time, that the eggs had spoken to her. She removed them both, cradling them against her and walked to the fire already burning. She placed them both in the flames, ignoring the acrid smell of burning flesh. 

Dark Sister removed, she sliced her palm, hearing Jon’s sharp intake of breath beside her. She dropped the blood and he walked forward, offering his hand and she cut it as well. Their royal blood mixed on the eggs, she stepped back and stood under Drogon. “_Dracarys,_” she said quietly. 

The remaining fighters were burned and when the flames began to fade, she smiled warmly at the two new additions to the family. “It was their time,” Jon murmured beside her. 

She approached, took the sweetlings into her arms, and carried them over to the burned sheep that Rono brought, allowing them to feed before they went into their basket, to stay safe on the journey back to Vaes Dothrak, where they could join their other kin. 

They would receive their names later, but she already was thinking of naming the beautiful bronze dragon after another bronze dragon of history, Vermithor. The mount of King Jaeharys. The pearly glow of the other resembled the moon, she might play with that name later. 

“Let’s go home,” she said to Jon, once he had climbed onto Eddarion.

They flew off, returning to Vaes Dothraki in early evening, and she tugged at her clothing as she approached the tent where a couple of the handmaids had said they’d prepared a hot bath for her and some food. “Thank you,” she said, remembering briefly a time where there had been no word for that in Dothraki. She’d created one and they nodded with a smile. 

Jon followed her into the tent and within moments, she had his breastplate clanging to the floor and was yanking at the scarf around his neck. “Fuck,” she cursed, biting at his lower lip as their mouths gnashed together, the two of them still riding high on the war, the fight, the win…whatever it was, she thought it was addicting.

Fingers tangled in each other’s laces, leathers, and tunics. She idly thought they wore way too many layers to fight in and perhaps should just do as the Dothraki did and go into battle almost naked, with only light leather and boots. The bath was ignored until they finished, lying spent and aching on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Her hair had been pulled every which way and she was not sure exactly what her name was. 

Her fingers went into Jon’s curls, his braids long torn out, and raked through them as he kissed back down to his favorite place on her body. “Gods,” she mumbled, eyes fluttering shut at the desire pooling again in her stomach and the way her toes curled around his calf. She sighed. “I feel so dirty.”

“Hmm….I’ll clean you up,” Jon said against her thigh and he proceeded to do that. 

When her release subsided and her body continued to tremble with aftershocks, she crawled to the tub and splashed into it, rolling over the side and closing her eyes as the water, still hot but not her preferred boiling temperature, covered her. A moment later she felt him climb in after, pulling her against his chest. They lay together for a long time, smelling of the oils that the Dothraki had put into the water, and she felt the tension release from her shoulders and neck as he lightly pressed kisses along it and ran his fingers over her upper arms, massaging gently. “We should get to Lya,” he murmured.

She smiled, eyes closing. “Okay. Let me finish here.”

He climbed out a few moments later and toweled off, dressed, and departed the tent. She waited a little longer, redoing her braids and scrubbing at the dirt on her neck. She tried not to look at the scar on her chest. She knew Jon never looked at it. Even as they made love, she could see his eyes averting. Sometimes he kissed it, very lightly, but generally he stayed away. They were still in a bit of denial. They still knew what it meant and how big that chasm still was between them when it came to her death. Her murder.

A loose shift over a pair of equally loose trousers, she shoved her feet into leather sandals and walked out of the bathing tent and to the one across, flicking the flaps open and pausing in the entry to smile at the sight laid out before her. 

Jon was on the floor, on his stomach, and feet in the air, ankles crossed, and had his chin in his hand, playing with carved wooden animals and Lya seated in front of him, holding up one. “And what does the horsie say?” he asked. 

Lya grinned, showing off the couple teeth that had kept them both up for several nights. “Ba!” It was her only word, really. Various forms of ‘ba’, ‘ma’, and ‘da.’ Nothing really definitive. Dany still wondered what her very first word would be. 

“No,” he laughed. “Horse goes ‘neigh!’” He picked up the sheep and proceeded to mimic animal sounds. After the horse, sheep, cow, and wolf, he picked up the dragon. “And the dragon goes…”

Lya turned and her face beamed, the smile broadening even more. “Mai!”

It was like the clouds opened up, the light of the sun and stars and moon raining down on her at once. Her feet seemed to lift underneath her and she could have floated off the floor, seeing only her beautiful little girl before her. A sob left her lips and she fell to her knees, grabbing her little girl and crying into her soft dark curls, as Lya continued to babble the word. 

Mai.

Mother.

She sobbed, unable to believe this was truly her life. This was her world. My little girl, she thought, raining kisses on her precious child, her heart swelling and threatening to explode. “Mai,” she laughed. She nuzzled Lya’s nose, her daughter still smiling and laughing, those beautiful little belly laughs. Pure and unadulterated happiness. “Oh my baby.”

She was talking, Dany thought, releasing Lya to wander in her big, purposeful steps towards Jon. Talking and walking and she had her little teeth and she was happy. She was so happy. Lya patted Jon’s face. “Can you say ‘ave’?” Jon asked, making the word exaggerated so she could see his lips forming the word. “Ave…ave…”

“Av!” 

More laughter, this time between the two of them, both of them falling into a tangle together, Lya standing on Jon’s stomach, one of her hands in his and the other in Dany’s. She rested her head on his chest, grinning up at the little girl who was growing so fast. “She’s talking now,” she murmured. Speaking Dothraki. Soon she’d be speaking Valyria and…and growing up and… She swallowed hard. “We missed it.”

“Verri said that she’s been speaking for a few weeks,” he whispered. “She can also ask for milk.”

They had been away dealing with the problems in Myr and Lys. Dealing with the Disputed Lands and all the other issues that came with the kingdom. She sighed, brow furrowing. “I wish we were here with her.”

“Your Grace.”

The Valyrian came from the front of the tent and she called for Grey Worm, recognizing his voice, to enter. He stepped in and frowned slightly at the look of them both on the floor, arms and legs snaked around each other and Lya standing on Jon like she had just tackled him. He said nothing, but she swore she saw a tiny smile, and he offered out a folded piece of parchment. “From Braavos.”

“Oh, thank you.” She stood, taking the letter and unfolded it. She scanned it once and her eyebrows pinched together. She cleared her throat. “Thank you Grey Worm. It’s nothing serious but…we will fly for Valyria soon. Prepare the Unsullied.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The tent flicked closed and Jon came to stand beside her, Lya on his hip and her tiny hands pulling at his face, one hand tugging on his cheek and the other trying to go into his mouth, hooking him with her finger like a fish. He moved his hand to try to pull her away, but his heart wasn’t really interested ins topping Lya’s fun. “What’s happening?”

“It’s Westeros.”

He visibly stiffened. “And?”

“More refugees on ships. There was recently an attempt to unseat Bronn in the Reach. It failed.” She sighed. “The Houses of Healing need more support…the Volantene merchants have already given loans to Westeros and are stretched.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “The Iron Bank has extended the loans so much the interest now outpaces the loan itself.”

Lya had dozed off in his arms and he carried her to her little bed, resting her gently on the pillows. He was fighting with himself, she knew, and wisely kept quiet, waiting for him to make the next move. She poured herself a glass of wine, taking a few sips before she poured him a glass. “Why do you care?” he murmured. He continued, surprising her with his next statement. “Because I don’t.”

She turned, staring at him over the fire in the center of the tent. “You don’t mean that Jon.” 

“I do.”

She sipped her wine for a moment. Tapped her fingers on the edge of the cup. “I care about the people I hurt,” she murmured. Regret rose in her throat, feeling like acid. “If I could take all of those people to Essos I would and then they’d become my people.” 

He nodded. “And then they’d be my people too.”

The way he saw Essos now as his, not just hers, warmed her and comforted her, but she felt an ache in her gut, walking around to reach for him, setting her cup down on the side table to their bed. “They are your people too,” she murmured, her hands going to his forearms. 

And he began to shake his head. The walls were coming up around him and she moved closer, trying to stop it. To climb over them before he closed her off completely. “My people…treated you like a foreign whore,” he whispered. The anger in his eyes, so many years too late, hurt her. He shook his head again. “They always said Northerners were stubborn. Didn’t like outsiders, but…they are closed-minded. They aren’t stubborn. Just stupid. The rest of Westeros the same.” He dropped his head against hers, his lips brushing over her cheeks and neck and lips, anywhere he could. “You are mine and our daughter and…and that is all I need.”

Oh Jon. She closed her eyes tight, reaching around for him and burying herself into the warmth of his hard chest. He held her tight, cheek atop her head. She took a few breaths, steadying herself. “Jon…what I asked you to do recently…I will not do that again. I know you want to stay away from the violence and fighting.”

“Thank you, but…you don’t have to do that.” He cupped her face, whispering. “You are my queen and I will serve you in any way you need.”

In the end he still needed something to occupy his time. She brushed her knuckles against his face, whispering as they bent together, not allowing even light to come between them if they could. “Jon you need something to do I mean…you can stay with Lya all you want, but I know you. You need a purpose beyond.”

“I have a purpose,” he whispered. He smiled. “I have our daughter. I go into the cities and I listen to the people. I will help you as much as I can…make you the greatest queen the world has seen.” He brushed his nose to hers. “You know it has been almost ten years since I came here. Since I found you.”

She smiled. “I know. It’s so strange.” The hatred she felt when she saw him compared to love she had now. The broken man who could barely look her in the eye compared to the man who stared at her longingly, even when right next to her.

“We should celebrate.”

“And how?” she teased. She nodded to sleeping Lya. “We have Lya to think about too.”

“Let’s go to the beaches of Naath, you said that was where Missandei was from and it was beautiful.”

“And it is also deadly for non-natives,” she reminded him. She would have loved to see her best friend’s homeland, but the butterflies kept her to only surveying the tiny island by the air on the back of Drogon. 

He kissed her again, this time with more earnestness. “Then we go to Ib,” he murmured. Hands began to trail through her hair and down her body, his lips punctuating his words as he kissed each part of her he could reach. “Or YiTi. Or Moraq or…wherever”

“Or our island,” she sighed. It had been months since they’d been. 

“Yes, we’ll go there. Tomorrow.” She glanced at Lya. “You have to take her on Eddarion, you know Drogon gets worried when I fly with her.”

“Yes, but Eddarion gets jealous.”

She grinned, kissing him hard and fast. “He is such a strange dragon,” she murmured, looping her arms around his neck and nuzzling the pulse under his jaw. “Not unlike his rider.”

“Hmm…strange?” He grabbed at her sides, laughing at her burst of giggles, falling sideways onto their bed as his fingers went straight for her stomach and she tried to muffle her laughter to keep from waking Lya, the ticklish feeling almost painful as she kicked at him and continued to laugh, finally grabbing under his arms where she knew she could get him to burst into laughs, which he did, the sound filling her with as much sweetness as when she heard the same laugh from their daughter. 

\--

“You know I had dreams of making love to you under the weirwood.”

She sighed, feeling Jon nuzzle down the neck her open coat to her belly, with the two of them lying on a blanket beneath the weirwood in their godswood, while Lya slept soundly in her basket across the wood, Ghost keeping watch. “You’ve told me.”

“And yet we still have not done it,” he reminded her, kissing her again, this time with a bit more urgency. 

It was something that every time they tried, their daughter tended to remind them of her presence. As she did moments later, with her hands tugging at his trousers and his pulling her shift over her head. “Mai! Mai! Mai!” the little girl chanted from her basket. Ghost turned his head, almost glaring at them in disgust. 

Jon groaned into her neck and looked up, sighing and shaking his head. “Maybe some other time.”

She giggled and collected Lya, leaning up against the trunk of the weirwood, holding the baby against her, their daughter merely wanting attention and quietly settling, tiny fingers pulling on Dany’s. “Well this is our life now. Parents.”

His lips brushed over her stomach, followed by his hand, and the warmth sent a bolt straight through her. “One day,” he whispered, dark eyes lifting to meet hers, and his lips brushing again across the light linen of her shift. “I will put another one in you.”

That was the first time either one of them had mentioned another child. She smiled sadly. It was a wonderful idea. As many children as she could have with this man, she would. It was just something she did not think would ever happen again. “Don’t get your hopes up Jon Snow.”

“Don’t get your hopes down.”

She giggled; did he seriously just say that? Even he seemed to realize, still smiling. “Is Jon Snow being upbeat and positive?”

“It has been known to happen.”

They sat for a long time with Lya; Ghost came over and curled around them, his great head on his paws, and his tail draped like a blanket over their ankles. She thought of what she’d asked him, after they returned from Ghis. She sighed. “You know you never really answered me about…about what you may want to do.” If the Shadow departed from her side, she knew he should be somewhere else. 

“I’m already an advisor to you,” he said. He kissed her neck. “And other things.” He sighed when she didn’t engage his attempt to deflect the questions, as he had been able to do before. He gripped her tighter. “I have been training a sword since I could walk. I was never going to be the Lord of Winterfell, but I was going to be something. My place in the world there meant I was not meant for much beyond a hedge knight or the Kingsguard or the Wall. As Ned Stark’s bastard, it became clear that the Night’s Watch was really my best and only option…” he trailed off and took a deep breath, voice thickening. “I have killed more people than I can count and…and I died.”

Her eyes closed tight. After he died, he told her he didn’t want to do anything anymore. Sansa had convinced him to return to Winterfell to fight for their family and take it back from Ramsay Bolton. Another thing the woman had manipulated him into doing that he didn’t want to do on his own. The home that had never really been his, he got it back for a family that had abandoned him. She closed her eyes. “I know.”

“I just want to stay with you and with Lya and if the gods grant us more children, then I will stay with them.” He closed his eyes and she thought she felt some wetness on her neck and closed her eyes tighter at the thought she’d upset him to tears. “I do not want to fight any longer.”

She turned to look at him and finally met his gaze. “You are my king,” she whispered. “And I want you to be the king for our people as well. You will not need to be present unless you need to be…gods know I do not like revealing myself unless I need to.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “And we can stay here forever.”

The smile that pulled on his lips crinkled the corners of his eyes. They were growing old, she thought, lightly touching the lines. There was a slight bit of gray at his temples too. “I never thought I needed this,” he whispered. “But I do. I need you and I need to just…I don’t know what a life is like without pain and violence.” He quirked a lip. “It’d be nice to see.”

She nodded, understanding. That would be nice. It was all she wanted too. She nuzzled next to him and closed her eyes. They would figure it out. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was out of town this weekend and didn't get to update this fic when I wanted. As it is coming to an end, I may have a couple other one-shots in this universe before I start posting the Modern AU I am working on. It's Christmas-related so I probably should wait until closer to the holidays, but oh well. :D
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews!
> 
> Next Time: Jon realizes his role as Dany's King; Dany reveals some happy news.


	34. Fire and Blood II (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon accepts his role in Dany's world; Dany shares happy news.

Shrieking filled the stone halls of ancient Valyria and soon followed by the slapping bare feet of a little girl as she gave chase down a corridor, dodging in and out and around the columns, avoiding her father, who was too busy trying not to laugh to really catch her. Jon dodged around another column, where Lya was hiding and lunged for her, but she lightly sidestepped him, squealed in excitement, and took off again. 

They were playing a chase game she claimed to have invented, whereby she just ran up and hit you and then took off and you had to catch her. If you caught her, it was her turn to chase you. Jon liked it because it kept him from focusing on actual matters that required his attention like reading letters from complaining noblemen. Which he had been doing when Lya had decided it was time to play. 

“I got you!” he exclaimed, almost grabbing hold of her foot when she stumbled, but he purposefully held back and Lya laughed, throwing a challenging look at him and then raced into the room at the end of the hall. It was Dany’s solar and he dodged a couple of poufs and cushions in the center of the room, trying to grab hold of Lya who stood on the other side of the large desk. 

Lya laughed and climbed up onto the desk, dancing and taunting. “I am winning!” She took a couple big steps, knocking papers to the ground. “Whoops!”

“Time out,” Jon said, taking a few breaths. He was not that old, he thought, steadying himself. He reached for Lya, swinging her off the desk. “And let’s not climb Mai’s desk next time. Help me with these papers.”

“Ooh a dragon!”

There were likely plenty of dragons, the sigil was a dragon, he thought, looking over at the paper that Lya was holding. He smiled idly. “That’s nice.”

“And a wolf!”

Wolf? He peered back at the paper, taking it from her without question. The image was sketched out. He recognized Dany’s writing on the bottom. There were several of them, he realized suddenly. It was like she was creating a new sigil. He frowned at the wax seal stamped out a few times on one of the papers. What the seven hells? He stood up, looking at the desk and rummaged a bit, finding the seal. He studied the reverse image on it and then to the ones in wax on the papers. 

The three-headed dragon with a howling wolf. 

Lya had grown bored almost immediately when the papers were taken from her. She tugged on his leg. “Come on Papa.”

“Oh yeah…okay.” He picked her up and set her on his hip, studying the papers again for a moment. He would have to talk to Dany about this. Why was she hiding this? What was she even doing making up new sigils and the like? He continued to scowl, carrying Lya back to her play area, sitting down on the floor with her to dress up her dolls. 

For the next couple of weeks he found himself sprawled out in his solar and rooms or in the courtyard with Lya or in her rooms. He studied the fire at night and in the Dragon Tower, trying to figure out just what game Dany was playing with that sigil. He shouldn’t be bothered by it. They were a wolf and a dragon after all. Or was he just a dragon now too? He wasn’t sure what to call himself these days. 

He sat at the desk, leaning back in the big wood and stone chair Dany kept at her desk, staring at the letter he had just written out. Tyrion Lannister had thought he could just send an emissary to Pentos to work out a trade route for Dornish reds in favor of the olives of Pentos, but the people of Westeros had no need for fucking olives and from what he knew, Dorne was not giving up their stores of wine to the crown. Part of the problems Westeros faced anyway. 

The door opened and he looked up, his sullen mood brightened a bit at the sight of his beautiful wife for the first time in at least a month. She looked exhausted, her hair windblown and cheeks pink from flying. “Welcome back,” he drawled, tapping his right fingers on the wooden desk. 

Dany removed her padded overcoat, tossing it onto a chaise and striding towards him in her silk shift. “Oh I missed you,” she exclaimed, flinging herself into his lap. He immediately wrapped his arms around her and accepted the warm kiss she gave him, but she stiffened and pulled back, questioning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought I would get a better reaction than this, honestly.” She smiled again, her fingers tangling at the base of his neck. “Jon, what’s wrong?” He pushed the paper towards her, silently questioning. She picked it up and looked at it and then set it back onto the desk, sighing and leaning against his chest, arm going back around his neck. “That’s what you’re mad about?”

“I’m not mad,” he mumbled. He dragged his fingertips along the small of her back, keeping her steady against him. He sighed hard. “I just didn’t know why you didn’t tell me. You could have told me.” He met her gaze. Gray and violet. “Were you just going to be waving this around one day? Telling everyone I was your king without letting me know first?”

It was unfair, he knew, but he also wanted her to know that while he had agreed to be the King, he also was not quite ready yet for the entire world to know it. The people who it mattered to knew and that was fine with him. She reached her hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing over his jaw. “Jon, you are my king. It’s in your blood. You have always known…you accepted the title of King once before.” She bit her lower lip, her voice thickening. It made his heart hurt. “You killed me because you were afraid that I would kill you for it one day, didn’t you?” 

That was not the reason and she knew it, but he didn’t want to fight over that again. He was so tired of fighting. He closed his eyes, whispering. “You should have talked to me about this.”

“I’m talking to you now,” she murmured, lips brushing his. Her fingers gripped at his face and he moved to pull her tighter against him. He could almost feel her heart beat in his. “Rule with me Jon…you know it and I know it but you already are the King. Let’s show everyone that we’re already king and queen. Let’s let them know it is you and I against the world.”

He brushed his nose to hers, eyes still closed tight. It sounded so easy. “What about Westeros,” he whispered. He already felt like a king, he knew what she was saying was true. He listened to her and he advised her. He counciled her when she struggled to make decisions or when he feared her temper was getting the better of her. He was king already, it just needed to become official. “I don’t know.” 

“If you do not want to be King of Essos…” Dany ran her finger over his lips. He saw the fire in her eyes and it lit something inside of him. Her voice dropped. “What about the King of Westeros?”

No, never. He shook his head and hugged her close at the pain the idea caused him. “No,” he murmured. “No I do not want it.”

“They are your people Jon.”

Not anymore, as much as he still thought it might be true. Those people abandoned him. They abandoned her. The only thing he had ever felt there was pain and hurt and betrayal. Here he was someone else entirely. He felt her fingers thread around through his, moving his hand from where it gripped at her hip and up to press across her stomach, the warmth seeping through the thin silk. He frowned, eyes fluttering open to peer up at her. Violet eyes danced and her fingers brushed against his again. He cocked his head, silently questioning, but he already knew and he already felt his heart jump into his throat. He choked her name. “Dany.”

She nodded and her lips pulled over her teeth, soft pink revealing pearly white. “We have created a king.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips to his. She sighed. “Our Aemon…after the man who helped you become a man who was meant to be king, but who stepped aside for another Aegon to lead…I’m building a new world Jon. Be with me.” She touched her forehead to his and he could hear the earnestness and the pleading in her words. They struck something inside of him. He remembered a long time ago when the same words had created fear and pain. Now it was excitement. Longing. “Build the new world with me. I’ve already asked you. You already are, but do it officially now. Let the world know you are Aegon Targaryen.”

He wanted to; he could feel it in his blood, the burning and the yearning. He gripped her close, keeping his hand on her stomach, feeling the bump of their child. “What about Tyrion? Sansa? The moment you put that sigil out there and they find out, they will come for you…for me.” His voice cracked. “For our children.”

The dragon inside of her came out. Her voice hard. The conqueror. “We will protect them at all costs. They will burn if they hurt our children.”

Yes, he breathed, nodding in agreement. “We stay on our side.” He kissed her then, feeling the dragon inside of him threaten to explode as well. He broke the kiss a moment later, breathing deep and his hands buried in her hair. She kissed him again, once more before he nodded again. “They stay on theirs.”

“If they come they get one warning and no more.”

“No more.” They almost did not even need a warning. Jon thought they had already been given enough, but he understood where she was coming from. The need to extend that first offer to keep from looking like the conqueror she was. The conqueror they wanted her to be and were appalled at hewn they saw what it meant. 

The words from Tormund reverberated in his mind. He closed his eyes. “The North is dying. The people there are starving.” 

She pulled back slightly. Her voice cool. “They are your people. Not mine. I will not help them.”

They were his people. The ones he chose when he slid that knife into her ribs. The ones he thought he was saving. He could get on the back of Eddarion right that moment, fly to Winterfell, and take back his mother’s home. Take back the home he thought was his for so long. He closed his eyes tight. Sansa wanted it. She convinced him to ride south and fight Ramsay back for it. She wanted to be Queen and now she was. The people there…his people…so cruel to the woman who had come to save them. 

Even Arya, the one he most associated with home and family…where was she now? Sailing around the world after lying to him and hiding from him. Letting him believe her words about knowing killers when she was one herself and pretended she was in the right. 

He stood from the chair and took her hand, leading Dany to the open terrace, peering over the lit spires. The glowing red of the volcanoes in the distance. He squeezed her hand and drew her against him, arms going around her. Jon dropped a kiss to her lips, feeling her strain to get closer, when they were already molded together. “I love you,” he whispered. His hand cupped her chin, kissing her again. She whimpered against him and reached for him again, but he didn’t give her what she wanted, still keeping his lips light on hers. “I love you more than anything. It scares me as much now as it did then.”

One of the dragons screeched, flying by them and going to land atop the spire. He thought it might have been Vermithor. Or perhaps Moonfyre. He kissed her again and pulled her off her feet. She clutched him and hummed her pleasure into his mouth. They could get lost in each other, even after all this time. He waited a moment and knew his next words would scare her, so he kept her close, preparing for her to maybe move away. “You are my queen. Now and always.”

She stiffened, but she didn’t break away. She merely kissed him again and gasped when the other dragons screamed around them, Drogon flying overhead. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Eddarion. It was like they knew this was different. This was the final step. The true King and Queen, finally acknowledging what it meant to them. 

Dany fell back to her feet, dragging his face against hers and he let her, bowing forward as he held her hips tight in his hands. “I love you,” she whispered. 

He nodded, but he had more. “When they come,” he said. His voice hard as ice. “When they come we will be here for them. Things will change…it will bring it all back again.” All the fears and pain and anguish from before. 

She kissed him again, biting at his lower lip. “Jon,” she whispered. “You haven’t killed me in almost eleven years.”

“We are one.” His hand went to her heart. She covered his with hers, fingers entwining. “In this world or in your world, we’re one.”

Tears trickled down her pale face. He wanted to kiss them away, sweep her to their rooms, and never let anything harm her. She wasn’t like that though. This woman was not made of glass. She was strong and unbreakable and he would be whatever she needed him to be. “I still struggle you know,” she said. He nodded. She hesitated and choked her words out through tears. “I still try to figure out why you did it and…and what it did to me and to us.”

The dagger on her hip no longer taunted him like it used to. It was her protection in case. He understood it. He nodded and whispered. “I know…Dany…you’ve let me be with you. Let me love you and share your bed and…and we have children.” His hand went to her stomach again. The idea of another baby had him almost to his knees from sheer happiness. “That is all I want. To be with you.”

The smile on her face almost broke him. “I love you…my king.”

“And I you, my queen.” You’re all I need, he thought, closing his eyes as she buried her face to his neck. He smiled, long and slow, wanting to savor this forever. He heard footsteps from somewhere in the solar and the little hands pulling on the bottom of his tunic. He let go long enough to pick up their daughter, who cuddled against him, looking out at the dragons that screamed around them. 

Dany wrapped her arm over their daughter and nuzzled into him again. “Fire and blood,” she whispered. “Aegon.”

The words that everyone thought were all about violence and vengeance. He understood them now. Fire was destructive but it was beautiful and it enveloped you in warmth. Blood was their family and ensuring they lasted. Both fire and blood, together forever. He hugged her tighter and sighed. “Fire and blood Daenerys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left, bringing us full circle to the beginning of "Live in the New World or Die in the Old." Glad that everyone has stuck with this fic! Thank you for the reviews and comments!
> 
> Next time: Final chapter; Dany finds out there's a ship from Westeros heading to Essos; Jon warns Dany about the impending changes they might face.


	35. Their World (Epilogue) (Dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany receives a letter warning of change.

There was a change in the air.

She studied the letter she had received from one of the Volantene merchants. They wrote to her, concerned about the impending visit of Tyrion Lannister. She ran her tongue over her teeth. Tyrion Lannister was coming to Essos. He was crossing the border between their two continents, for the first time in almost fifteen years and he was going to step foot on land where he held no authority, no money, and no welcome. 

Important of all, Tyrion held no power here. 

The little lion’s mouth had gotten him in trouble more times than she could think and while he bragged often about his ability to survive because of his mind and his words, using them like armor against the world, he was miserable at it all. He was either a very good manipulator or he was very stupid. She wasn’t sure which at this point, because he had done quite a number on her. What would have happened if she hadn’t believed him? Hadn’t allowed him to convince her of his desire to help and his council? 

I should have never had a Hand of the Queen, I should have just relied on myself, like I always have and always will. It was a position she no longer wanted or needed in her court and thus far if she had a Hand, it would essentially be Grey Worm or Jon, both of them providing her all the council she needed. Although Jon preferred not to, since she had agreed to let him live in peace with Lya and had officially crowned him her King. 

Their sigil flew across all the cities, a silent announcement to all of Essos there was another who ruled at her side. The Shadow, the Dragon, the White Wolf…whatever they called him, she didn’t care, but they would honor and respect him as their leader when he appeared. Which of course he really didn’t. It had worked well for the last year or so, since she’d sent the order to have all the banners changed to the new one. He was a Targaryen, the three-headed dragon was his symbol as much as it was hers, but he was also a wolf and that was a very strong part of him. So it would also be a strong part of their joint rule. 

Dany studied the response she had drawn up for the Volantene merchants, as well as the letter she planned to pass along to Tyrion. She heard a noise, looking up when Jon entered the room where she did her work while they stayed on the island. She covered the letters, not wanting to alarm him with this news. It would take a couple of months for Tyrion to reach their shores. She folded her hands on the desk, arching an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

“Tormund took Lya to the beach.” 

She smirked. “Aemon is asleep.”

The wolf grin appeared on his face; she loved when he allowed that part of himself to emerge from behind the often brooding and sullen expressions that mostly kept to his face. He leaned over the desk and nipped at her bottom lip, which she stuck out, exaggerated, for his taking. “Is he now? That’s quite something.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling. He was so easy to read. “I like where your mind is Jon Snow but unfortunately, I have work to do…ruling a continent and so forth.”

He knocked the quill from her hand and pushed the papers aside, leaning forward to draw her up and into his arms, the desk still between them. She sighed in happiness, her eyes fluttering closed as he kissed across her jaw and down her neck. This was one of her favorite things about working from the island. It was so easy to be distracted and she allowed it. She hummed her approval when he found a spot behind her left ear that tended to send her spiraling around. She kept her arms around him, her fingers spreading over the hard planes of his back. After a long moment, she finally broke away and kissed him, hard and fast. “No distractions!”

He laughed, pushing away as she lowered herself back into her chair and tugged at the papers. “Thought I would try.” He stepped over to the fireplace and knelt, adding a couple more logs into it and frowned slightly. “Where’s the other egg?”

“Lya has it in her room.” The purple and silver egg that belonged to her daughter was bundled up in blankets at the base of her bed, where it often stayed when it wasn’t in the fire. 

“Which one you think is Aemon’s?”

“The black and red,” she said automatically. When she had been almost ready to burst with her son she had drawn that one towards her, straight from the flames, and only days later did her son arrive in the world. Much like with Lya, she had almost died, as he had been backwards and the Dothraki midwives had almost had to slice into her with a knife to get him out. Once again, Jon had to be restrained and when he couldn’t, he had broken Rono’s jaw. Rono said if she ever had more children, he would just leave Jon to whatever he planned because he did not feel like breaking any more bones.

There was a third egg, sky blue and gray. It looked like the mornings after a storm. When the dark clouds had blown through and everything was cool and relaxed. She did not want her hopes to get up about the possible mate of the egg. She was older now, her previous times with child hard and terrifying, and she did not want to think about possibly having it again in the future only to be disappointed. She returned to her work. 

In the meantime, Jon set about cleaning Longclaw. He almost never used the Valyrian steel for its purpose, only to train with her in the evenings or mornings, whenever there was time. She understood it was a calming action for him, the whetstone moving slowly over the steel, bringing it to a deadly sharpness and gleaming shine. “Jon,” she murmured, pulling the letter to her that told of Tyrion Lannister’s journey. “Did you know that Brienne of Tarth had twins?”

The whetstone paused. He looked up, genuinely surprised. “No…they’d have to be what….”

“Fifteen,” she murmured. It had been fifteen years since her failed attempt to take back her kingdom. Fifteen years since she died. She lifted her eyes from the paper to his. The gray had changed to black, his pupils dilated. She smiled briefly, pushing a few others over the letter in question. She folded her hands atop them and took a deep breath, trying to smile and cover her discomfort. “I don’t know what made me say that, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head and set the whetstone aside, sheathed Longclaw, and stood, walking over to lean back against the desk. He drew the chair towards him and turned her to face him. “Where did you hear about the twins?”

She cleared her throat. “It just…I got it in a letter. It doesn’t matter.” It did matter. It mattered because Tyrion Lannister had taken those poor children and put them on a ship with him. He hoped she wouldn’t hurt him with innocents on board. He was absolutely right, she wouldn’t. Except he was stupid because if she could get him to Valyria, she would, and then what? She glanced at Jon. She didn’t want to think of it anymore. 

So she stood and folded herself into his arms, pressing her mouth open and hot against his. It didn’t matter right now, she thought, as he began to tug at her dress and she hurriedly unlaced at his tunic. “Tormund will be back soon,” he mumbled against her mouth. 

I don’t need much time, she thought, taking his hand and bringing him up the stairs to their room. Afterward they laid together, with her head pillowed on his chest, and fingers tracing the curved scar over his heart. They were really something else. Two people back from the dead. Absolute messes of humans who somehow managed to get through what they could and here they were. She closed her eyes, burrowing closer. As close as she could get, her eyes shut tight to the world. 

Things were going to change. There was no way they couldn’t. She would have to tell him soon. They might need to bring out the King of Essos for this one. She didn’t want to though; she wanted him to live in peace. The peace he longed for and only ever wanted. Tyrion Lannister was going to ruin it, she thought, trying not to cry, but one tear escaped, landing on his skin. 

“Dany? What’s wrong?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, shaking her head. “Nothing,” she lied. She rose up slightly to kiss him. Distract him. “It’s nothing, I’m happy.” She smiled. He nodded, but he knew her. Knew her too well and he didn’t believe her, but he kept his mouth shut. She felt the stirring of Aemon in his cradle in the next room, knowing that at about this time of day he would be hungry. She pushed up from Jon’s chest, climbing over him and making sure to step on him. She giggled when he grabbed her ankle, yanking her back down onto the bed and blowing against her neck and digging his fingers into her ribs, sending her feet straight into the air kicking as she laughed, her chest hurting from the sheer love of it all. 

“Stop!” she screeched, but he was relentless and she just kept laughing, trying to grab at him, knowing that if she got her fingers anywhere near the crook of his neck he’d be hers. She hooked her leg around his hip and using the leverage flipped her body up and over, pinning him. She grinned. “Give up.”

He grinned up at her. It was a sight she loved seeing. The brooding was not as frequent as it was before, but there were times. She really just enjoyed it when he was happy. He rose up quick, kissing her, and then flipped her off. “I’m going to get Aemon.”

On cue their son began to fuss. She climbed from the bed and dressed, walking down the stairs and outside. Jon joined her, holding a fussy Aemon, his little fists punching the air. She clucked her tongue, taking him and sinking into a chair outside, not having to work to get Aemon to take her breast. “You’re hungry,” she cooed, peering into his grayish-purple eyes. They were changing. Had been changing for a bit. She kissed the top of his head, humming to herself as she fed her son. 

These were the moments she lived for. The moments that made everything she was doing worth the pain and the fatigue and the fear. She heard Jon ask his always asked question. “How did this happen?”

“Not even death can keep us apart,” she murmured, her fingertip drawing circles around Aemon’s soft cheek. She tossed her hair from her eyes; she would cut it soon. Tyrion arriving would be all she needed to remind herself of her failures. She tried to smile, but she knew he was looking at the scar that was creeping out from around Aemon’s head, which had been blocking his view. 

They went back inside after a time and while she prepared supper, the front door burst open and Lya rushed in, holding up a handful of shells. “I found these!”

“They’re beautiful,” she said, fussing over her daughter and kissing the top of her head. She turned her towards the fire. “Go put them with your egg. They will look pretty around it.”

Tormund studied the egg that remained in the fire, as Lya decorated around her egg and the other rested in Aemon’s cradle with him. He propped his head in his hands. “Can I have the last egg Missus Dragon?”

“Do you have Targaryen blood, Tormund?” She ignored Jon’s snort from where he was fussing with Lya’s hair, trying to tame it back into a braid. 

The redheaded giant laughed. “I don’t think so, all First Men here. More even than Crow claims.”

“Well he has Targaryen blood.” She turned, setting a plate down on the table for Lya. She walked over to the fire, kneeling and stoking the fire around the egg, the sky blue shimmering dark in the flames. She dropped her fingers to it lightly. “Otherwise you can just play with the egg, but you can’t have it. Besides, a dragon is not a slave.”

“Well I may not know much, but I can count. One egg for the little lass, one for the little lad and…” Tormund arched his bushy eyebrows, looking knowingly at her. He smirked. “Crow’s magic pecker still work? We got another baby dragon away?”

The bluntness of Tormund always made her smile and it did the same then as well. Lya looked up from her dinner. “What’s a pecker?”

The choking from Jon had both her and Tormund laughing. She shook her head and stood from the fire. “Oh Papa, I think you should answer that one.” All he could do was cough. The comment had her heart aching a little. Another baby would be…gods she wanted as many children as she could possibly carry. At her age though it would be difficult. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, protecting it. She turned away from the fire and went back to the kitchen, busying herself. 

That evening she lay in bed, holding the egg against her. Aemon’s was in his cradle and Lya had hers as well. She glanced up as Jon entered and crawled into the bed beside her. He touched his fingers to the top of the egg, tracing one of the swirls of silver. “You and the eggs,” he murmured, meeting her gaze. “Wasn’t there a story of the Targaryens putting eggs in cradles?”

“Yes,” she whispered. That was how they hatched them. Back when maybe things were easier for the dragons. Now it required more than just resting the egg with the babe in their bed. “It works and one day they will have dragons and fly.”

Her eyes closed as he fluttered his fingers over her belly and pressed his palm there. It was warm and wide, spreading fire through her body. She arched towards him and closed her eyes. His voice was gravelly, but she heard the fear too. “Three eggs…three heads of the dragon…three babes.”

The smile broke on her face and the tears fell. She curved against him and sniffed; gripping the light tunic he wore to sleep hard in her hand. “Not right now,” she whispered. She took a deep breath and held it for a moment. She smiled, trying to lighten things up. “We will know when Ghost starts refusing to let me out of his sight and Drogon starts nuzzling my belly, won’t we?”

He grinned. “Aye.”

They lay together, twisted up in each other, for most of the night, and she knew he wasn’t sleeping. She dragged her fingers along his, entwining them together, enjoying watching where hers melded into his. Sometimes she wasn’t sure where either one of them really ended or began. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “I may need to go to Valyria soon.”

“We just got here.”

“Jon we have been here for months.”

“Oh.”

She smiled, glad that he forgot how long they were on the island. It was his home. Their home. She thanked him silently for not asking why she might have to fly to Valyria. So she drew the sheet up over her shoulder and burrowed into him again, soon falling asleep in his arms.

\--

The rage inside of her boiled and bubbled. It turned her vision red. She let the letter from Braavos fall onto the desk. She swept from the room and outside, storming to Drogon, who sensed her anger and anguish. He landed hard before her and she ignored Eddarion screaming, no doubt drawn by the desire to burn and kill. She didn’t know where Jon was, probably with Tormund, who had the children. She could not think, so she climbed onto Drogon and took to the sky, before she did anything she would regret. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. 

It refused to come easy. The knife wound cried at her side and it felt as though it were bleeding again. She screamed as loud as she could as Drogon flew in the sky, diving and ducking. She shouted for him to burn and set the sea ablaze before she took him straight to Westeros and destroyed more. She sat up on his back, sobbing and heaving her breath. 

The Faceless Men received a contract. The face of Daenerys Targaryen. They refused. She had never told them not to kill her. She would not presume to tell them how to practice their faith to the Many Faced God, even if that meant to take her face. She wondered about Jon, if perhaps he had said something to them. She couldn’t think about it then, but they weren’t taking the contract. The contract from a little lion, the letter read. 

Tyrion Lannister meant to kill her. He had no idea she had children, no idea she was a mother, all he knew was that she was the Queen of Essos, the one who got away, who would always be a threat to him. Wasn’t that all he cared about? How he looked or felt in a situation and not what anyone else felt? Did he even think about how it would be for Jon when he manipulated him into killing her? Of course not. 

She wanted him dead so much. As hard as she fought and as much as she had moved through her pain over what had happened fifteen years before, she still wanted Tyrion Lannister to pay somehow. She ran her tongue over her teeth, staring at the fire dying out on the water below. She needed to train. She needed to make sure her skills were sharp and she was honed like the weapon she had become. For her safety. For her children’s safety. 

Gods if Tyrion found out about them…she sobbed in horror at what that could mean. The deaths of her babies. Her fierce Lya and sweet Aemon. Her fingers clutched at her belly. Perhaps there was a child within. A third rider for the third egg. She had already lost two of her dragon children due to Tyrion’s horrible schemes. She had lost her child with Jon to another. 

I have to practice, she thought again, diving Drogon back to the island. He crashed down, breaking the ground beneath his talons and she jumped from him, striding to the house where she grabbed Dark Sister and attached the sword belt around her hips. She marched to Jon, who was emerging from the barn, holding a bale of hay to give to the sheep. The sheep they kept for wool and food, for humans and dragons alike. “Forget that,” she ordered. “We’re training.”

To his credit, he said nothing. He set down the hay and went wordlessly to the house. He emerged in his standard training outfit and with Longclaw. They went to the area beyond the godswood where they tended to practice. She did not wait to see if he was behind her or if he was ready, because that would not happen in a real fight. 

Dark Sister flew through the air and she screamed, slamming it into Longclaw, the steel vibrating shimmers of onyx, red, and silver. He spun in place, the sword an extension of his arms, whipping it and cutting and parrying while she did the same. They fought to kill, because that was what would a real fight would be, neither one getting the blade closer than to tear lightly at their leather and thin armor. 

Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Tormund appear, Aemon in a pack on his back and Lya at his side. They said nothing, watching while she fought. Her eyes widened as Jon suddenly spun again, the sword flying into the air. Her eyes on the sword, which was airborne, and she did not feel until she was falling backwards that he had flung his leg out, kicking her ankles from under her. She screamed, falling to her side, just in time to see him grab Longclaw before it fell back to the ground, the tip of the sword at her chin. 

He was taking deep breaths, his hair falling out of its bun. “Yield,” he ordered.

She growled. “Where did you learn that?”

“Not telling.”

A scream came from her throat; angry he had clearly been practicing something without her. She had been lax. She sprang to her feet, hearing Tormund call out that they had a strange way of foreplay. She was not in the mood for his antics. He turned and walked back to the house with Lya, who was protesting that she wanted to watch them fight. 

They continued and she knew she was growing sloppy, letting her emotions interfere in her fighting. She wasn’t sure how much longer they battled, until suddenly she stopped, Dark Sister falling to her side. She tried to breathe through the pain of her scar. She saw Jon rub at his chest, knowing his scars were also paining him. “Jon,” she said suddenly.

He glanced sideways. “Yes.”

A long pause. She finally met his gaze. The gray was so deep and she could get lost there forever. Drown in them if necessary. “If I need you to…to make an appearance…to be the King I need…will you do it?”

He stared at her for a long time. She wondered if he was going to say no. That wasn’t their agreement. He cocked his head slightly and finally said something. “Is that what this is all about?”

“Just answer me please.”

He waited another moment. Walked towards her and picked up the sword belt he’d flung off earlier during their fighting and sheathed Longclaw. He set it down on the ground and placed Dark Sister beside it. She glanced at the swords and then at their hands, which he took together, squeezing tight. He leaned in and whispered. “I will be whatever you need me to be. I am yours. I said it and I meant it. Anything you need Daenerys. Anything you want.”

Daenerys. She loved how he said it, the northern burr still heavy even after all these years. She closed her eyes. “A far cry from many years ago.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. 

“Well we’ve both changed since then,” he murmured. 

There was a change coming. “I can feel something in the air.” She looked up again. She didn’t want him to ask why. Didn’t want to ruin his happiness by dragging Tyrion Lannister’s impending visit into their world. “It’s been fifteen years since I died Jon. In all that time since you found me, in all the pain and all the trials we have gone through. The babies…” She swallowed. “I just…something is going to have to change that for both of us. It’s on its way. Don’t ask me how I know, just…just promise me you will be there.”

That was all she needed. She had wished for it so many times before. And all he did was pull farther and farther away from her the more she needed him. She could not go through that again. She would die. 

Jon gripped her hands so tight she wasn’t sure if she could even feel them. There was fear in his eyes. Fear but also trust. “Whatever it is Dany, we will get through it like we have. Like we always have…together.”

Together. She smiled. “Did you ever dream anything like this was possible?” After you killed me. Before you killed me…she wasn’t sure.

“No,” he said, immediately. He shook his head and smiled softly. “I still don’t think its real. This is nothing like how I envisioned my life. It’s better.” 

I’m glad. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling him grip her close. “It could have been…if you hadn’t…” She left it unfinished. It had been so long since she’d openly thrown it into his face. Other than the dagger on her hip, she hadn’t said anything recently. Her eyes shut tight. It was starting. The resentment. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Don’t let this kill you guys Dany, she thought. She sobbed, but it sounded like a choke. “I’m sorry.”

He said nothing about the mention, but she could feel his heartbeat quicken. His grip tighten. “I was free when I left there…went beyond the Wall…but…but I was miserable.” He pulled back and touched his forehead to hers, voice thick with tears. “Then those dreams happened and I found you and here we are…two kids and ten dragons and…and Tormund.” She laughed at that, biting her lower lip and sniffing her tears back. He idly brushed at the tears and cupped her chin in his hand. “Gods Daenerys I love you more than I ever thought it was possible. It just gets more with every passing moment.”

Jon Snow, the one she never thought could string more than a few words together, breaking her heart. She pushed her nose to his. “Gods I love you too.” Things are going to be different though. She could only just savor how they were in that moment. She dropped her hand and gripped the hilt of the dagger. She felt him stiffen a bit. Her hand dropped to his side and held tight as he kissed her, almost bending her backwards with the intensity. 

They held onto each other as the other was their lifeline. She could not let him go. So she didn’t. And neither did he. 

Hours later, even after they’d returned to their house and were with their children…and Tormund of course, she couldn’t let him go. She knew he wanted nothing more than to ask her what was wrong and why she was so scared, but he trusted she would tell him in time. In time, she thought, closing her eyes and reaching for Lya, who had come over to show them the new wooden animal figure Tormund had carved for her. 

And they laughed with Lya when she made fun of Tormund and they smiled warmly at each other when Aemon began to fuss and Lya began to chide him. Right now we aren’t King and Queen, she thought, pushing all thoughts of the lion to the back of her mind, as far as she could put it, because right now she was just Dany and he was just Jon. In time she would return to being Queen, but for now, she just wanted to live in this little world she’d created and never come out.

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously this series isn't over and I'll be writing various one shots as they come to me, but the big multifics are probably done for awhile. I've got the Christmas Modern AU I'm working on bit by bit. 
> 
> I also have another fic I am also working on (Modern AU as well) and let me tell you that it is total romantic Jonerys trash and I can't help it. I'll post it when I'm ready, but it is totally the Nora Ephron-inspired romantic comedy Jonerys fic that no one asked for and I don't care.
> 
> Anyways-- thanks for reading!


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